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 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER
 
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 BALLANTVNE, HANSON AND CO. 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON
 
 THE 
 
 EARL'S DAUGHTER 
 
 BY 
 
 ELIZABETH M. SEWELL 
 
 Life . , . is energy of Love, 
 Divine or human ; exercised in pain, 
 In strife, and tribulation ; and ordain'd, 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 
 Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy. 
 
 The Excursion 
 
 NE IV EDIT/ON 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 1886 
 
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 I.
 
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THERE was an unusual stir in the old cathedral town 
 of . It was neither a market-day, nor the anniver- 
 sary of a public fete; neither the season of the annual 
 visitation, nor of any public meeting ; yet the narrow footways 
 were thronged, and knots of idlers stood inconveniently at the 
 corners of the streets, making their remarks upon the few 
 carriages which enlivened the generally dull town, or noticing 
 with interest the occasional approach of the rows of neatly- 
 dressed school children, who, with orderly steps and serious 
 looks, were bending their way to the open square in which stood 
 the great entrance to the cathedral. Gravity, indeed, was the 
 pervading deportment of all the assembling crowd ; but a 
 deeper, more reverent, and anxious feeling might be traced 
 upon the features of some, who, fully aware of the difficulties of a 
 Christian life, were about to witness the renewal of those vows 
 by which the ignorant and untried, the weak and the erring, in 
 the midst of a sinful world, and about to enter upon the scene of 
 its temptations, pledge themselves, in the sight of an All Holy 
 God, to be His in spirit, in truth, and for ever. It was the day 
 
 appointed for the Confirmation of all within the diocese of 
 
 who had attained the age required by the Bishop, and on few 
 occasions had a more careful preparation been made for the due 
 observance of this important rite. The time had gone by when 
 the verbal repetition of the Church Catechism was alone deemed 
 necessary for the candidates. A more zealous spirit had arisen, 
 and many, who had themselves been allowed to renew their 
 baptismal vows without thought or prayer, now, warned by past 
 
 465469
 
 2 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 experience, endeavoured most earnestly to urge upon others the 
 importance of the period which they had reached, and the real 
 meaning of the words which, from childhood, had been familiar to 
 their lips ! 
 
 The Confirmation of that day was felt to be a most solemn act 
 of self-dedication ; and as the knights of old, when preparing to 
 assume the insignia and encounter the perils of their order, were 
 accustomed to fast, and watch, and pray, that they might be en- 
 abled to struggle and conquer in the unknown dangers before 
 them ; so the young aspirants to the full privileges of Christianity 
 were taught to humble themselves by repentance, and prepare 
 their hearts by prayer, that in the hour of temptation they might 
 not be forgetful of their high calling, and fall short of their 
 eternal reward. The spectacle which the cathedral church of St 
 Mark exhibited when the choir was filled, before the service of 
 the church began, was one of no common interest. The broad 
 light of the sun, as its rays streamed through the stained windows, 
 fell upon fair young faces chastened by holy thoughts, and boyish 
 features subdued into stillness by the pressure of a strange and 
 hitherto unfelt awe. There were countenances which told of fear 
 and wonder, and some, it might be, of indifference ; there were 
 eyes bent upon the page in which the vow to be renewed was 
 recorded ; and lips moving in silent prayer that strength might 
 be granted for its fulfilment ; whilst, at times, over those youthful 
 faces there passed the shadow of a dark cloud, the cloud of the 
 memory of sin : the vision of cherished offences, of indulged 
 tempers, — vanity and pride, selfishness and irreverence, — the 
 bitter fruits of an evil nature, now a second time to be publicly 
 renounced for ever. Was it to be marvelled at, if in some then 
 present the weakness of humanity for a moment shrank from 
 the warfare imposed upon it, and would fain have returned to the 
 bondage of Egypt, the indulgence of earthly inclination, rather 
 than brave the battle with those stern enemies — the world, the 
 flesh, and the devil — which throng the borders of the land of 
 promise ? 
 
 But the wish, if it arose, was founded on error. The candidates 
 for Confirmation were no longer free to choose. Once baptized, 
 once admitted into the fellowship of the Catholic Church, and 
 there could be no drawing back. The members of Christ, the 
 children of God, the inheritors of the kingdom of heaven, could 
 never again ' be as the heathen.' They might despise their 
 privileges, and break their vows ; but the privileges had still been
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 3 
 
 granted, and they must be answerable for them; the vows were 
 still upon their heads, and so would also be the punishment for 
 neglect. For them it could never be a question, whether they 
 would accept Christianity : but whether, having accepted, they 
 would renounce it ; and even the most indifferent amongst the 
 professed followers of Christ would surely have trembled to risk 
 the woe which must inevitably follow an open, deliberate 
 apostasy. 
 
 But although no second promise could in reality increase the 
 binding responsibility of the first, yet the public ratification of a 
 covenant with God must ever be regarded with awe. The bap- 
 tismal vow was now for the first time fully impressed upon the 
 consciences of many by whom it had scarcely before been re- 
 membered, and they trembled as the moment approached when 
 they were to seal it with the consent of their own lips. 
 
 The peaceful, soothing words of the daily service were said, 
 and when they were ended there stood before the altar of Gcd 
 the high-born inheritors of honour and wealth, and the gentle 
 children nursed in affluence and retirement, and the humble 
 offspring of poverty, united by one creed, one hope, one danger, 
 and summoned to join in one common act of self-dedication. 
 
 Together they listened to the earnest supplication which was 
 to bring down upon them from on high the ' sevenfold gifts of 
 grace ; ' and then side by side they knelt, and each in turn 
 bowed beneath a hand of blessing — the blessing of their spiritual 
 Father in Christ. 
 
 Once more they were seated as before, to receive from the 
 bishop's mouth the words of advice, and warning, and consola- 
 tion, which were to guide them amidst the temptations of life ; 
 and when the final benediction was given, and the full tones of 
 the organ pealed through the long aisles, they parted even as 
 they had met, for the greater part unknowing and unregarding, 
 to many a distant home, never to meet together again in one 
 place till they should stand before the judgment-seat of God, to 
 answer for the fulfilment of the vow which had that hour been 
 registered in heaven.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 IT was the evening of the same day, a day of unwonted bril- 
 liancy and warmth. The sounds of busy life were fading 
 upon the listening ear, the cattle were returning from the pas- 
 tures, the birds were seeking their nests, the tired workman was 
 slowly wending his way towards his home, and the deep tones 
 of the cathedral clock as it struck the hour of eight fell with a 
 warning voice upon the few who were still engrossed in their 
 round of daily occupation. 
 
 The peacefulness of such an hour was felt even amidst the 
 bustle of a crowded town, and the jar of folly and vice ; but in 
 the quiet garden of the old, gray manor-house of St Ebbe's there 
 was nothing to disturb the hallowing effect of its influence. The 
 low, ivy-covered walls which enclosed it seemed built for the 
 t'ery purpose of excluding all thoughts of the busy world ; the 
 long, green walks invited to regular exercise and meditation ; the 
 neatly-trimmed borders, gay with flowers, spoke of carefulness 
 R\\d simplicity, and appreciation of the loveliness of nature ; and 
 the quaint sun-dial, raised upon a circle of rough stone steps in 
 the centre, gave a silent call to the unthinking to note the flight 
 of time, whilst it bade them, in the words of Holy Writ, which 
 were graven upon its pedestal, ' watch and pray, that they 
 might not enter into temptation.' The building itself, with its 
 weather-stained walls, and mullioned windows and deep porch, 
 accorded perfectly with the quaint style of the garden. It was 
 not large, and boasted few architectural ornaments ; but it was 
 the existing symbol of bygone years, and insensibly carried back 
 the mind to times far removed from the present, when, if man- 
 kind were not wiser and better, they were at least less restless, 
 and Avhen the lords of the manor of St Ebbe's were willing to 
 ' dwell amongst their own people,' and knew no higher interest 
 in life than that of providing for their welfare. So it was not 
 now ; the house, and the garden, and the lands, which once 
 were deemed indissolubly attached, had been divided into sepa- 
 rate lots : the manor-house had become a farm-house, the farm- 
 house had been neglected ; and, ruined and dilapidated, would 
 have fallen into almost hopeless decay, but for a succession of 
 fortunate events which placed it in the hands of those who were
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 willing to expend some money and much taste in restoring it, 
 though not to its original beauty, yet to a condition in which it 
 might be inhabited with comfort. 
 
 The inmates of the manor-house, in its present state, were 
 widely different from its early occupants ; and if the first Sir 
 Ralph de Bretonville, whom tradition asserted to have been the 
 founder of the family, could have looked upon the youthful 
 figures standing upon the dial-steps, and watching the gradual 
 lading of the gorgeous sunset, he might have deemed them 
 beings of another race, so little could they have resembled the 
 uncouth train of revellers, huntsmen, and serving-men, with 
 whom his own halls must have been filled. 
 
 They were two girls, who appeared to have scarcely passed 
 the age of sixteen — unlike in dress, height, and figure ; but 
 showing, by an unrestrained ease of manner, that the tie be- 
 tween them, if not of blood, was one of familiar intimacy. 
 
 The taller — and, seemingly, the elder — of the two, was finely 
 formed, and dignified, almost commanding in manner. Her 
 dark hair was braided with studied neatness across a high 
 forehead, and one long ringlet fell on either side upon the well- 
 turned neck, over which a shawl had been hastily thrown to 
 protect her from the evening air. Her complexion was clear, 
 and brilliant with the hues of youth and health ; and none, 
 probably, could have turned an indifferent gaze upon the perfect 
 contour of her features ; — the deep-set hazel eye — the Grecian 
 nose — the full expressive mouth, which bespoke intellect and 
 energy, and natural elevation of character ; — and as she stood, 
 with one hand pointing to the glowing sky, and the other rest- 
 ing upon the dial-plate, whilst the dazzling hues of sunset fell 
 upon her graceful figure, she might have been fitly deemed the 
 representative of the Sibyl, or the Pythoness, exulting in the 
 first enthusiasm of inspiration. 
 
 Her companion it will be less easy to portray ; for Lady 
 Blanche Evelyn was not regularly beautiful. She was slight in 
 figure, and rather below the usual height ; — her complexion was 
 naturally pale, though, at that moment, tinged by the faint 
 crimson-flush of interest and agitation ; — her eyes, dark and 
 exquisitely sou, were not striking in their brilliancy, like those 
 of her friend. There was less of a marked outline in the con- 
 tour of her face, even of the long-chiseled nose and peculiarly 
 sweet mouth ; and the clustering ringlets of glossy chestnut 
 hair, which shaded her features, gave an air of greater youth-
 
 G THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 fulness to her general appearance. The forehead — high, open, 
 and intellectual — bore, indeed, some resemblance to her com- 
 panion's, but the expression of the ft hole countenance was but 
 little affected by it. 
 
 It was not intellect which could have been uppermost in the 
 thoughts of any person looking, for the first time, upon Lady 
 Blanche Evelyn. The sparkle in her eye, the smile upon her 
 lips, the light, eager animation of manner, chastened by re- 
 finement and simplicity, were the tokens of a heart delighting 
 in the first freshness of life ; — remembering the past without 
 regret, and painting visions of the future with innocent enjoy- 
 ment ; and if, for a moment, a transient shade of thought passed 
 over the sunshine of her fair young features, it was the thought, 
 not of foreboding or discontent, but of a mind to which the 
 mysterious realities of the unseen world were presenting them- 
 selves with all their overwhelming power. 
 
 Graceful, gentle, and childlike as she was, she might have 
 been deemed by many unfitted to cope with the trials of the 
 world ; but, whether it were from the natural dignity of one 
 upon whom the honours of a long line of ancestry were destined 
 to descend, or from a strength of character unknown only be- 
 cause untried, — an under-current of firmness ran through her 
 words and actions ; scarcely indeed perceived, except by minute 
 observation, but then displaying itself even in the intonations of 
 her musical voice, and the increasing earnestness of her ges- 
 tures, as she pursued her conversation. 
 
 ' To-morrow,' she said, as she threw her arm affectionately 
 around her companion, ' to-morrow, Eleanor, by this time I may 
 have seen him, and you may have seen him too ; our plans will 
 not seem dreamy then.' 
 
 ' They will to me,' was the reply ; ' till I can see how they 
 may be carried out : and I dread to-morrow, lest it should make 
 me forget to-day.' 
 
 ' Sometimes it seems impossible to forget,' replied Blanche, 
 as she gazed intently upon the golden sky. ' Now, it seems so ; 
 and then again, — Oh ! Eleanor, I feel it will be very hard — 
 when my thoughts are given to earthly things my heart will 
 follow ; and yet, at this time, how can I help it?' 
 
 ' Then, it cannot be wrong,' said Eleanor, soothingly. 
 
 ' If I could but think so ! But after this morning, no one 
 who had really fixed principles would be as changeable as I
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 ' No one thinks you changeable, except yourself,' answered 
 Eleanor. 
 
 ' I know myself better than others know me, then,' said 
 Blanche. ' Even after all I have promised — all those prayers 
 and the charge, and all my resolutions — I cannot keep my mind 
 fixed as I ought. I have such dreams of home and of papa ; 
 and when I shut myself up this afternoon, and tried to do what 
 Mrs Howard advised, I was wandering to things gone by, — all 
 that has happened since we have been here. I wonder whether 
 others have the same difficulties.' 
 
 Eleanor thought for a few moments, and then said, rather 
 abruptly, ' Did you notice that sickly girl who sat to the right 
 of us at the head of the charity-school ? ' 
 
 ' Yes/ exclaimed Blanche : ' her eyes never seemed to move 
 except when the chanting began, and then she looked up 
 amongst the arches of the cathedral with such intense awe. I was 
 vexed with myself for thinking about her, and yet it did me good.' 
 
 ' She was blind,' continued Eleanor : ' one of her companions 
 led her up to the altar as we left it. Mrs Howard says she 
 comes from Rutherford ; and I mean to ask papa if he knows 
 her.' 
 
 ' I think I could bear to be blind,' observed Blanche, ' if I 
 could only feel as I am sure she did. But the world is so 
 beautiful, and it is so pleasant to live and to be loved ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Eleanor ; ' for you, especially, who have every- 
 thing else that the world can give.' 
 
 ' Why should I have so much ? ' exclaimed Blanche. ' It is 
 very strange ; and when I looked at that poor girl it frightened 
 me. And yet, Eleanor,' she continued, and a shade, almost of 
 sadness, passed over her face, ' it may all be marred. I shall 
 be like a stranger in my home, and papa may have lost his 
 English tastes, and be vexed that I am not what he pictured.' 
 
 ' You are fanciful,' replied Eleanor, with an air of authority ; 
 ' you should remember what Mrs Howard says about not creat- 
 ing evils.' 
 
 ' But he will be my all,' said Blanche, humbly. ' If his love 
 fails me, what shall I have to look to ? ' Eleanor's countenance 
 expressed surprise, and Blanche instantly corrected herself ; ' on 
 earth, I mean,' she said ; ' but that is an instance of what I 
 mentioned just now about forgetting. I know that I ought to 
 be calm and trusting, thinking of to-day instead of to-morrow. 
 Do you remember the bishop's saying it was part of our duty ? ■
 
 8 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Yes,' replied Eleanor ; ' I was looking at the blind girl at 
 the instant, and her face brightened when she heard it, as little 
 Clara's does when she first gains a new idea.' 
 
 Blanche was silent for several minutes. ' I must not think,' 
 she exclaimed, at length ; ' the time is coming so near. When 
 the sun goes down again, I may be watching it from the terrace 
 at Rutherford.' 
 
 ' And I from the rectory,' said Eleanor. < We shall be 
 separated then.' 
 
 The words sounded reproachfully ; and Blanche eagerly ex- 
 claimed, ' Only for a few hours ; our homes will be almost the 
 same. You do not think, Eleanor, that I could be happy if it 
 were not so.' 
 
 ' Not now. But, Blanche, the path of your life will lead you 
 away from me into the world, and, amongst gay friends, you 
 will have many other ties.' 
 
 1 But the one,' said Blanche ; ' where can I find that ? The 
 blessing which was given us to-day together will never be re- 
 peated again ; — ours can never be a common love.' 
 
 Eleanor grew very thoughtful. ' Promise to love me always,' 
 she said. ' Doubt comes over me sadly at times.' 
 
 Blanche did not promise ; but she looked at Eleanor with 
 wonder, as if not comprehending the meaning of her words, and 
 before she could reply, some one was heard to repeat her name ; 
 and a little girl, about ten years of age, ran up to them ex- 
 claiming, ' You must come directly, — this moment ; you must 
 not wait a minute : Mrs Howard wants you in her room. Pray, 
 Eleanor, don't keep her.' 
 
 ' Is it for me ? Did Mrs Howard send for me, Clara ? ' and 
 the colour faded from Blanche's cheek. 
 
 ' Yes, Mrs Howard ; and ' — the child stopped, put her finger 
 upon her lip, and smiled archly. 
 
 ' Who ? What ? Who is here ? ' asked Eleanor. 
 
 ' Never mind ; don't ask questions. Mrs Howard told me I 
 was to make haste.' 
 
 Lady Blanche said nothing ; she leant against the sun-dial, 
 and every limb trembled. 
 
 ' You are ill, dearest,' said Eleanor, affectionately ; ' and this 
 suspense is dreadful for you. Clara, you must tell us — Is Lord 
 Rutherford arrived ? ' 
 
 Clara was delighted at her own power, and, turning away, 
 exclaimed, ' For once Eleanor Wentworth cannot have her will.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 ' But Blanche Evelyn can ; ' and Blanche drew the little girl 
 towards her, and said in a faint voice, ' If you love me, Clara ' — 
 
 The appeal was successful. Clara's arm was put within hers ; 
 and, looking up in Blanche's face to watch the effect of her in- 
 formation, she whispered, ' I have not seen him ; but Mary and 
 Agnes have.' 
 
 Blanche scarcely waited to hear the last word, before she had 
 flown towards the house ; but as she readied the porch she 
 stopped — her courage had failed. 
 
 Eleanor was at her side immediately. ' He must love you — 
 dote upon you, Blanche ; and his letters — you do him injustice 
 by being afraid. 
 
 Blanche put her hand before her eyes ; and holier thoughts 
 came to her aid. One Father she had who knew the weak- 
 ness of His child, and could strengthen her as well against the 
 infirmity of nature, as against the temptations of sin. She 
 placed her icy fingers within Eleanor's, and clasped them with 
 the energy of nervous resolution ; and then, with a firm step, 
 turned away to seek for the first time, since she had been con- 
 scious of existence, the presence of her father. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE Earl of Rutherford was a man the ruling principle of 
 whose character was generally supposed to be easily dis- 
 covered from his expressive countenance : conscious nobility, a 
 love of command, an impetuous temper, and a powerful intellect, 
 were plainly inscribed upon it. He was born to honour, ac- 
 customed from infancy to rule, and the world had decided that 
 pride was the governing motive of his actions. So at least it 
 was said, when, fifteen years before, he had suddenly left his 
 ancestral home, upon the death of a wife, whom, if he had not 
 loved, he had at least treated with the outward marks of respect ; 
 and confiding his infant daughter to the care of a lady, the per- 
 sonal friend of the countess, left England with the avowed 
 determination of remaining abroad for some years. The step, 
 strange though it appeared, was declared not incompatible with
 
 io THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 his character. The grief preying upon his heart was said to be 
 less the death of his wife, than the failure of a male heir ; and 
 the Lady Blanche Evelyn, although born to inherit both the 
 title and its annexed estates, was considered to be an object of 
 compassion rather than of love to her haughty father, from the 
 feeling that it was impossible for a woman fitly to support the 
 dignity of the family, and the dread lest the event of her mar- 
 riage with some yet more distinguished individual should sink 
 his own noble house into comparative insignificance. All this 
 the world said. The Earl of Rutherford was pitied, but cen- 
 sured ; his sorrow it was imagined would be transitory, and his 
 journey was considered merely the impulse of a hasty moment. 
 That he would return again, it might be with a foreign bride, or 
 at least to seek another in England, was considered a matter of 
 certainty ; and yet year after year went by, and the Castle of 
 Rutherford was still left unoccupied. Political engagements, it 
 was known, were in a great measure the cause of the earl's 
 absence, but they would not account for an exile of such length ; 
 and the rumours which were at first circulated regarding a 
 second marriage at length ceased. Tidings of him were heard 
 —sometimes at Rome, sometimes at Vienna, once at Constan- 
 tinople ; but all gave the same impression. If Lord Rutherford 
 had been considered proud at home, he was thought to be yet 
 more so in the careless ease of continental society. The noblest 
 and fairest ornaments of European courts passed before him, 
 but all were alike unnoticed ; and, at the expiration of fifteen 
 years, he was returning to his native land, with the same im- 
 penetrable manner, the same cold reserve of tone, for which 
 he had been remarkable on leaving it. And in the meantime 
 his child grew up in retirement, under the care of a lady every 
 way calculated for such a charge. Mrs Howard was a widow, 
 who, at the age of thirty, found herself suddenly reduced from 
 a situation of affluence and happiness, as the wife of a beneficed 
 clergyman, to one of almost hopeless poverty. The death of 
 her husband, which had been so sudden as to prevent him from 
 making any satisfactory arrangement of his property, joined 
 with other circumstances perfectly unforeseen, had combined to 
 produce this great misfortune ; and, but for the long-tried 
 friendship of the Countess of Rutherford, Mrs Howard's prospects 
 would indeed have been dark. Through her exertions, however, 
 the manor-house of St Ebbe's was purchased, and fitted up so 
 as to accommodate Mrs Howard and the few pupils whose
 
 THE EARLS DA UGHTER. 1 1 
 
 education she was able to undertake ; and when, in the prospect 
 of approaching death, the countess gazed in sadness upon her 
 child, her chief earthly consolation was derived from the hope 
 that the earl would consent to place the infant Lady Blanche 
 under the care of the only person in whose affection and principle 
 she was able implicitly to confide. Lord Rutherford was not 
 present to receive the dying injunction of his wife, but her 
 wishes were received with an attention nearly amounting to 
 superstition. Lady Blanche was removed to St Ebbe's, and the 
 sole charge of her education trusted to Mrs Howard, with but 
 one stipulation — that she should have no companion. For a 
 few years this agreement was easily kept. During the child's 
 infancy she was perfectly satisfied with Mrs Howard as her 
 nurse, instructress, and playfellow, but new wants were dis- 
 covered with increasing years, and Mrs Howard, believing that 
 such a solitary education might operate unfavourably upon her 
 character, at length prevailed upon the earl to allow her to re- 
 ceive into her family Eleanor Wentworth, the daughter of the 
 rector of Rutherford. Blanche was at this time about seven 
 years of age, and fully able to appreciate the charms of com- 
 panionship. Eleanor was clever, generous, and affectionate ; 
 and the progress made by both the children from the period 
 of their being placed together convinced Mrs Howard that she 
 had judged wisely in the advice which she had given : and 
 when, in the course of events, the care of three little orphan 
 nieces devolved upon her, she had no difficulty in persuading 
 Lord Rutherford to allow them also to share her attention at St 
 Ebbe's. 
 
 The charm of society was felt chiefly by Blanche. Eleanor 
 returned to her home at stated times, and mixed with other 
 friends, and enjoyed the novelty of other scenes ; but to Blanche 
 the occupations of the manor-house, the interest of the village 
 of St Ebbe's, and the dull liveliness of the old cathedral town, 
 were the only excitements of life. Even the castle of Ruther- 
 ford, her destined home, was but like a beautiful dream, asso- 
 ciated with visions of the mother who had been described as 
 the most lovely and perfect of earthly beings, and the father, 
 whose supposed virtues and talents formed the great romance 
 of her childhood. 
 
 And the Earl of Rutherford, if judged by his letters, was 
 indeed formed to excite admiration, if not respect. They were 
 the letters of a refined, highly-cultivated, affectionate mind ; — ■
 
 12 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 keenly alive to the charms of grace and luxury, yet mourning 
 over the unreality of all earthly enjoyments ; — joining in the 
 pursuits of the world, yet sighing for the sympathy of the few 
 who were alone deemed worthy of friendship ; and seeing too 
 deeply into life to be satisfied with aught that earth could give. 
 One thing alone seemed to give him real pleasure, the hope of 
 returning to England and devoting himself to his child ; — and 
 yet year after year went by, and still he lingered in a foreign 
 land. Blanche learnt by degrees to attach but little meaning to 
 his expressions of dissatisfaction with continental habits, and of 
 desire to revisit his own country. He might be — no doubt he 
 was — sincere; but the circumstances or the feelings which 
 detained him abroad appeared as binding as ever ; and a 
 shade of discontent was just beginning to dim the brightness 
 of her hitherto happy life, when the intelligence that her 
 father was actually on his way to England, and would probably 
 arrive in the course of a few weeks, brought back all her early 
 enthusiasm and delight. Yet the satisfaction, after the first 
 moment, was by no means unalloyed. Her own departure 
 from St Ebbe's would be the inevitable consequence of the 
 earl's return, and with this was involved separation from the 
 friend who had supplied a mother's place, and claimed all but 
 a mother's affection ; and as Blanche recalled the fondness 
 which had been lavished upon her from infancy, she wept in 
 bitterness of heart for the ingratitude which could for an instant 
 rejoice in such a prospect. 
 
 As regarded Eleanor, the case would be very different. She 
 was to return to her parents at the same time, and the near 
 vicinity of the rectory and the castle formed, at least in the 
 simple mind of Lady Blanche, a reason for believing that the 
 change of life would be merely nominal ; — that they would 
 share the same interests, and partake of the same pleasures, 
 and be to each other, what they had hitherto called themselves, 
 — sisters in affection, if not in relationship. 
 
 She could not contemplate the possibility of a change., — and 
 the fears which Eleanor sometimes expressed, were to her 
 merely the fancies of an excitable, over-anxious mind. 
 
 But, as the season approached for the earl's arrival, the 
 struggle in the mind of Blanche between hope and regret — the 
 future and the past — became mixed with other thoughts, which 
 served to calm her spirits by diverting her feelings into a dif- 
 ferent channel. The period of her Confirmation had been
 
 THE EARL'S DA UGHTER. 1 3 
 
 unavoidably fixed for the time when Lord Rutherford wa > 
 expected ; — and though Mrs Howard would at first willingly 
 have cither hastened or deferred it, so as to give a more favour- 
 able opportunity for due preparation, she soon saw reason to 
 be thankful that events had been so ordered as to leave no 
 possibility of choice. The gay, gentle, confiding spirit of Lady 
 Blanche, open to every impression, and apparently incapable of 
 the possibility of concealment, yet retained within it a depth 
 of reflection and principle which Mrs Howard had never pene- 
 trated. Unknown to herself, Blanche was timid and reserved. 
 She could speak openly upon all ordinary subjects, — confess 
 her faults, and laugh at her mistakes, and lament her ignorance, 
 till even a very keen observer of human nature — and such Mrs 
 Howard was — might imagine that she had told all that was in 
 her mind. But there were occasions when the deepening 
 colour of her cheek, or the hesitation of her voice, gave indica- 
 tions that in the hidden world within there lay feelings far 
 loftier and purer than any which she ventured to express. Her 
 words were the words of a humble, candid, light-hearted, simple 
 child ; but her thoughts — who may tell the earnestness, and 
 reverence, and trustfulness, with which the young heart devotes 
 itself to its Maker before the evil influence of the world has 
 chilled the warmth of its early affections ? What Lady Blanche 
 really was, Mrs Howard never knew, till in the intimacy 
 of serious intercourse which preceded her Confirmation, the 
 anguish of repentance for youthful sins overcame her natural 
 reserve ; and hopes, and fears, and doubts, and the bitter con- 
 flict of the soul, which all — even the most outwardly innocent — 
 must endure, in the work of bringing back the heart to God, 
 were confessed without a thought of concealment. From that 
 moment the tie between them was one which earth has no 
 power to break. 
 
 To Blanche this newly-acquired sympathy was an unspeak- 
 able blessing ; it soothed her in the moments of self-reproach, 
 when the delight of her father's anticipated return distracted her 
 thoughts from the solemn subject of her approaching Confirma- 
 tion ; and enabled her to view clearly the life which was open- 
 ing before her, and to arrange definite plans for her future 
 conduct, instead of doubting and vacillating in the desire of 
 doing everything, and the dread of succeeding in nothing. If 
 Mrs Howard had been dear to her before, as her truest and 
 wisest friend, her mother's chosen representative, much more
 
 H THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 was she dear now ; and, even when trembling before the door 
 which was to admit her into her father's presence, a sudden 
 pang of sorrow shot through her heart as she caught the tones 
 of Mrs Howard's voice, and thought how soon she might listeiv 
 for them in vain. Mrs Howard herself opened the door as 
 Blanche placed her hand upon the lock. She did not speak ; 
 but her silent kiss told more than the most eloquent words ; 
 and, as she walked slowly away, Blanche allowed herself to 
 hesitate no longer, and entered the room. The earl was stand- 
 ing by the window — his eye fixed upon the travelling-carriage 
 which had brought him that evening from London ; but his 
 thoughts wandering to years, now so long passed away, that 
 they seemed but as indistinct, yet painful, visions. He was 
 recalling the day when, in the company of his wife, he had paid 
 his first visit to St Ebbe's ; and the associations awakened by 
 the remembrance were so absorbing, that the sound of his 
 daughter's footsteps was unheeded. Blanche remained irresolute 
 — afraid to intrude herself upon him, yet faint from the effort 
 to restrain her agitation. A few moments elapsed, but to her 
 they seemed like hours ; and then the carriage drove off, and 
 the earl, heaving a deep sigh, turned suddenly round, and 
 became aware that he was not alone. 
 
 It was a strange meeting ! He did not move or smile ; but 
 the colour forsook his cheeks, and his lips quivered ; and as 
 Blanche drew near, he gazed upon her steadfastly, and sinking 
 into a chair, the name of his wife escaped his lips. Blanche 
 stood before him motionless. The earl's head was averted as if 
 he dreaded to look again ; but, when at length the simple word, 
 ' Papa/ fell upon his ear, he started, passed his hand across 
 his forehead like one awakening from a dream, and, clasping 
 his child to his heart, he blessed her fervently, and poured forth 
 the fulness of his contentment ; and, at that moment, the 
 fondest hope of affection which Blanche had ever ventured to 
 indulge appeared about to be fully realised. 
 
 ' My visit to-night must be but short, my child,' said the earl, 
 when the excitement of feeling had in a measure subsided, and 
 Blanche ventured to inquire how long he could stay with her. 
 ' I have business in the town, and must leave you almost 
 immediately ; but to-morrow we will start early, and reach 
 Rutherford in time for you to see it in its beauty." 
 
 ' And for the first time/ said Blanche : ' it seemed hard, 
 papa, never to have been allowed to go there before j but
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 I am glad of it now. I would much rather see it first with 
 you.' 
 
 The earl smiled. 
 
 'And with Miss Wentworth ? We are to take her with us, 
 I believe.' 
 
 ' Will you really ? ' and Blanche's eyes sparkled with de- 
 light. ' We hoped it might be so ; but Dr Wentworth was 
 afraid you might not like it.' 
 
 ' Shall you like it ? — that is the question, Blanche.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford spoke shortly, and Blanche was a little 
 awed. 
 
 ' I shall like everything that you like, dear papa,' she said ; 
 ' and Eleanor and I have not set our hearts upon it.' 
 
 ' But you would prefer it, my love ; only say so, and it shall 
 be.' 
 
 Blanche had penetration enough to see that her father really 
 wished her to choose ; and, as she warmly expressed her plea- 
 sure at the proposal, the earl's gentleness of manner returned. 
 
 ' My engagement is pressing,' he said, as he rose to depart, 
 whilst Blanche hung upon his arm, ' and a night's rest will be 
 desirable for us both ; but we will meet at eight to-morrow, if, 
 as Mrs Howard assures me, you are quite prepared for such a 
 sudden move.' 
 
 The mention of Mrs Howard brought back Blanche's sad 
 thoughts. 
 
 ' You will let her come and see me sometimes, dear papa, 
 won't you,' she said, timidly. 
 
 ' Let her come ! ' replied the earl ; ' rather ask her if she 
 will be kind enough to take the trouble: she may not think as 
 little of a long journey as you d ).' 
 
 Blanche looked grave ; for she could not bear, even in jest, 
 the idea of any obstacle to a continued intercourse with her 
 best friend. The earl no sooner perceived it, than he began to 
 assure her that if the distance were ten times as great, it should 
 not interfere. She need not have a thought upon the subject ; 
 and if Blanche had not herself stopped him, he would have in- 
 sisted upon seeing Mrs Howard again at once, and inducing 
 her to name a certain time for a visit to Rutherford. 
 
 Blanche scarcely understood this instantaneous attention to 
 her wishes. Mrs Howard's object had been to guard her 
 against the peculiar dangers of her position in life, by accustom- 
 ing her to yield her own will even on the most trifling occa-
 
 1 6 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 sions. She often saw others preferred before her, and her 
 natural disposition led her to obey rather than to command ; 
 and this, added to the influence of Eleanor Wentworth's appa- 
 rent decision of character, made her insensible to her own powers. 
 Perhaps too much so ; Mrs Howard at least began to fear lest, 
 in fostering gentleness and consideration, she had kept her too 
 much in ignorance of the influence which her rank and fortune 
 would naturally give her ; and lest the sudden consciousness of 
 superiority might prove more injurious to her character than if 
 she had been accustomed to it from childhood. But it was too 
 late to remedy the mistake. Blanche was about to enter upon 
 the world, unknowing of its snares, and guarded only by the 
 simple piety of a humble spirit, which has learned to distrust 
 itself, and to lean only upon God. As she was then, there was 
 nothing to fear: but how long her simplicity would remain un- 
 tainted, her heart uncorrupted by the flattering homage which 
 awaited her, was a question which only the most unhesitating 
 faith could have borne to ask. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MRS HOWARD sat in her dressing-room that evening long 
 after her usual hour of rest. She was too anxious, her 
 mind was too preoccupied, to hope for sleep. She could only 
 think over the past, and pray for the future ; whilst she dwelt 
 upon the dispositions of her two young charges, and the trials 
 to which they might be exposed in their journey through life. 
 
 It would have been difficult to tell which excited the greater 
 interest ; perhaps the one for whom she feared the most seemed 
 then the nearer to her heart ; yet Eleanor Wentworth's charac- 
 ter was, in itself, much more open to temptation than that of 
 Lady Blanche. Nothing but the certainty that, at the rectory 
 of Rutherford, Eleanor would be as carefully guarded from evil 
 as at the manor-house of St Ebbe's, would have relieved the load 
 of apprehension which pressed upon Mrs Howard's spirits as 
 she thought upon the fickleness of purpose, the pride and 
 jealousy, the hasty, though generous temper, which were continu- 
 ally marring the influence of her talents and high principles. 
 
 But Eleanor was not, like Blanche, to return to a home where
 
 THE EAR US DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 ?he would be the cherished idol of every heart. She would be 
 ioved, indeed, deeply and tenderly ; but it would be with a 
 Christian love, which would watch over her faults, and tell her 
 truth without reserve. She would have quiet occupations ; 
 duties to her parents and her sister ; duties in her father's 
 parish ; amusements in her garden and her books ; and society 
 in the castle and its neighbourhood. 
 
 Mrs Howard almost smiled at the feeling of dread which 
 she had allowed to disturb her, as she owned to herself that 
 Eleanor's situation in life seemed peculiarly free from tempta- 
 tion ; whilst, again, she sadly reverted to Blanche — noble, 
 beautiful, and rich, but deprived of a mother's care, and with 
 no one to be her daily guide and counsellor, but the father, 
 whom there was reason to fear might be little fitted for such an 
 office. 
 
 The position was undoubtedly one of peril, and self-accusa- 
 tions mingled with Mrs Howard's forebodings. Memory went 
 back to the hour when, as an innocent, unconscious infant, the 
 child of her early friend had been committed to her care ; when, 
 after the lapse of but a few weeks from the death of the Countess 
 of Rutherford, the earl had placed his daughter in her arms, and 
 bade her love and guard her for her mother's sake. To love 
 her was indeed easy ; but to guard, to teach, to educate her — 
 how had the task been performed ? It was a sad array of 
 errors and neglects, which conscience brought before the mind 
 of one whom the world rightly judged to have discharged her 
 duty faithfully and unshrinkingly ; so much seemed to have 
 been left unsaid, undone ; so much higher an example might 
 have been set ; so many warnings and instructions given. As 
 the painful reflections crowded upon her mind, a gentle tap at 
 the door was heard, and Blanche entered the room. She was 
 looking pale and ill, and her eyes were dimmed with tears ; and 
 Airs Howard, startled at her sudden appearance, inquired, in 
 alarm, the cause. Blanche tried to smile, whilst she assured 
 her that it was merely a whim — a freak ; — she was restless, 
 and could not sleep, and the light was shining underneath the 
 dressing-room door ; and — but her voice failed her, and hiding 
 her face upon Mrs Howard's neck, she said, ' To-morrow ! — 1 
 cannot leave you.' 
 
 ' It will not be leaving me, my dearest child,' replied Mrs 
 Howard. c We shall still be one in affection, and your father 
 promises that we shall meet frequently.' 
 
 B
 
 1 8 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' But that will not make things as they have been/ replied 
 Blanche. ' I shall only have you for a short time, and I shall 
 want you every hour in the day.' 
 
 ' Perhaps that is the very reason why it is good for me not to 
 be with you/ said Mrs Howard ; ' we must not depend too 
 much upon our fellow-creatures, however we may love them.' 
 
 ' If I were not so ignorant,' said Blanche, ' and if I knew 
 what sort of life I was going to lead, it would not seem so bad ; 
 but seeing papa has upset all my ideas. I don't mean that he 
 is different exactly in appearance from what I thought, but his 
 manner is. He put me forward when I talked to him, and 
 seemed to make me settle things ; and I would much rather he 
 would not.' 
 
 ' You will be used to that in time, my love,' replied Mrs 
 Howard, smiling ; ' and you must recollect you are no longer 
 a child.' 
 
 ' No indeed,' exclaimed Blanche, ' after to-day I could not 
 be ; but that, again, makes me unhappy. How shall I know 
 what is right or wrong in trifles? I cannot ask papa; — at 
 least, I think I cannot; — and I may decide badly, and do what 
 I ought not ; and perhaps all my resolutions may fail. You 
 know it is so sometimes, when people have felt a great deal 
 more than I have.' 
 
 ' You can apply to me always,' replied Mrs Howard, ' in 
 cases in which you really have no one else to consult ; but it is 
 not advice which can keep you right.' 
 
 ' No,' said Blanche ; 'but if — if I should grow careless, and 
 not pray properly ' 
 
 ' Fear for yourself, my love,' replied Mrs Howard, ' and 
 then no other friend need fear for you ; but if you can attend 
 carefully to the few rules I gave you the other day, I think you 
 will find your duties less difficult than you imagine.' 
 
 ' I always now have some time to myself in the middle of the 
 day,' said Blanche ; ' but here I can do as I choose.' 
 
 ' And you will do as you choose at home, my dear,' replied 
 Mrs Howard. ' I have no doubt of it. The best thing, how- 
 ever, to say to yourself, is : not that you will, if you can, but 
 that you must ; — that everything must, to a certain degree, give 
 way to it ; that if you cannot be alone at one hour, you will be 
 at another. We require not long prayers but frequent ones, to 
 keep up our watchfulness.' 
 
 'And then self-examination,' said Blanche ; ' it ib s>o difficult.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. iq 
 
 4 Yes, most difficult ; and the only way to make it easy is to 
 practise it frequently ; to carry it on from one part of the day 
 to another, at the times we fix our private devotions.' 
 
 < The difficulty to me,' said Blanche, ' is, that all this makes 
 one think so constantly of one's self ! ' 
 
 1 So it may, at first ; but the mind must be educated like the 
 body. How is it for instance, that you are able to walk with- 
 out stumbling ? If you are in a dangerous road, you observe 
 where you are going ; but, generally speaking, you are kept in 
 safety, not by thinking of yourself, but of the objects around you.' 
 
 ' This is what I want to do with my mind,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' And it will come by and by, my love ; but you must be con- 
 tented to walk carefully in the dangerous road first ; and, after 
 a time, you will find yourself instinctively shrinking from evil, 
 and able to pursue the right path — not so much by watching 
 yourself as by keeping your heart fixed upon God.' 
 
 ' It will be very long before that time comes,' said Blanche. 
 
 * Yes, because it is the perfection of a Christian life ; but we 
 must be patient. In your case, I confess it is likely to be 
 particularly difficult, because you will have so many tempta- 
 tions.' 
 
 ' Not more than others, I suppose,' said Blanche ; ' and 
 yet it seems that I shall never be as good as some whom I have 
 read of.' 
 
 ' But I am afraid you will have many more temptations than 
 people in general,' continued Mrs Howard ; ' and I should be 
 happier if I felt that you understood this. God has given you 
 rank and wealth, and no one in your home to share the atten- 
 tion which will be paid you ; and your papa is very likely to be 
 over-indulgent and blind to your faults.' 
 
 Blanche leant her head upon the mantelpiece, and in a low 
 voice said, ' You will pray for me.' 
 
 ' Pray for you daily and hourly,' replied Mrs Howard, ear- 
 nestly. ' God only knows how precious you are to me. Per- 
 haps I am over-anxious ; but luxury and flattery are very 
 insidious.' 
 
 ' I need not indulge myself in luxuries, even if I possess 
 them,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' No ; though I am afraid the temptation will be greater 
 than you are aware of. If your mind is corrupted, dearest 
 Blanche, the commencement will almost inevitably be self- 
 indulgence in trifles.'
 
 20 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' I don't think I quite know what you would call trifles,' said 
 Blanche. 
 
 ' Such as a little indolence in rising,' replied Mrs Howard ; 
 1 a little waste of time in light reading ; a slight carelessness in 
 conversation, saying things which are not strictly right for the 
 sake of amusement ; or spending money thoughtlessly ; or even 
 consulting your own ease by making yourself too comfortable, 
 and so rendering yourself indisposed to exertion for other people. 
 All these things are considered allowable by the world ; you 
 may do them, and no one will notice them ; and your con- 
 science may, perhaps, scarcely reproach you for them ; but 
 they are the beginnings of evil — the first steps towards that 
 love of self-gratification which is the peculiar snare of the rich.' 
 
 ' I like ease and comfort now,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' I think you do, my love,' replied Mrs Howard ; ' and I am 
 not saying that the liking them is wrong, but dangerous ; and 
 against the danger I know only one safeguard, as far as our own 
 endeavours are concerned. There are times, you know, when 
 we are bound to deny ourselves the use even of lawful plea- 
 sures ; — one day at least in every week we should do so. If 
 we check our inclinations then, we may hope they will not gain 
 the mastery over us at other times.' 
 
 ' I shall not know what to do when I am at home,' said 
 Blanche. 
 
 ' And I cannot tell you exactly,' replied Mrs Howard ; ' be- 
 cause, of course, you must be governed in a great degree by the 
 habits of your father's house. Only when we have determined 
 to do something, half our difficulty is over. A sincere will must 
 soon find out the way, without being singular or acting in any 
 way to attract notice.' 
 
 ' But I wish so much — so very, very much — that I could have 
 some rules,' said Blanche. 
 
 Mrs Howard half smiled as she kissed her, and said, — ' And 
 I wish so very much that I could give them, because I know it 
 would make you happier ; but I can only repeat in a general 
 way what I have said to you before ; little details must be left 
 to yourself : it is impossible to shake off the burden of re- 
 sponsibility, Blanche, though I know you would willingly do it 
 if you could/ 
 
 ' But if I make my rules and keep to them/ said Blanche, 
 ' still I may attend to them only as a matter of form, and then 
 they will be of no use/
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 Mrs Howard was silent for a few moments ; the most earnest- 
 minded often feel bitterly the contrast between the advice which 
 they give to others, and the practice which they are conscious 
 of in themselves. 
 
 ' It is very hard/ she said, at length, 'to feel, even in a re- 
 mote degree, as we ought ; but, dearest Blanche, if you follow 
 the plan you have had marked out for these days ;— begin them, 
 for instance, earlier than usual, if possible, and give up your 
 first thoughts to self-examination and meditation upon those 
 chapters in the Gospels which describe our Lord's sufferings ; 
 rising special solemn confessions, and also arranging your 
 prayers for the rest of the day, with a particular view to 
 these subjects of meditation ; — I think you will scarcely fail to 
 have some deeper gratitude— some more sincere penitence ; 
 you will at least feel that the day is not like other days.' 
 
 ' I will try,' said Blanche ; but she sighed, as if distrusting 
 herself. 
 
 ' And you must hope, too,' continued Mrs Howard ; ' hope is 
 a great instrument of good with us all. The work of a Chris- 
 tian is the work of a whole life ; and we must not despair be- 
 cause we are not perfect at once, especially when we have such 
 aid promised and given. In a very short time, my love, you will, 
 I trust, be fully admitted into the communion of the Church.' 
 
 Blanche looked distressed, and for a few moments did not 
 attempt to speak : at last she said, ' I thought you would have 
 been with me.' 
 
 ' And I thought so too, and hoped more earnestly than I can 
 say ; but it has been otherwise ordered, and it may — it must be, 
 better for us both. Yet we cannot really be separated ; my 
 prayers and my heart will follow you, and we shall surely be 
 united in one spirit as members of the body of Christ — more 
 closely even than at this moment.' 
 
 Again there was a pause ; the struggle of over-excited feel- 
 ings overcame Blanche's efforts to restrain them, and bursting 
 into tears, she "exclaimed, ' I am not worthy.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Mrs Howard, and she placed her hand fondly 
 on Blanche's head, ' you are not worthy ; no one can be, not 
 even an angel from heaven. But if the blessing is greater than 
 words can tell, so also is the love. Blanche, it is a father's 
 voice which calls you ; perhaps now, for the first time, you can 
 understand what a father's affection must mean.' The allusion 
 had the effect which Mrs Howard desired.
 
 22 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Blanche raised her head, and a smile gleamed through her 
 tears as she said, ' I will try to think of it, and not be afraid.' 
 
 ' And you will be assisted and accepted, dearest ; you must 
 not doubt it. There is much that I could say to you even now 
 upon the subject, though we have so often talked of it before ; 
 but I do not think you will allow anything to interfere with such 
 a duty. I do not think you will ever make false excuses, or turn 
 away with coldness, whatever examples may be set you. In 
 time,' and Mrs Howard's voice involuntarily became more sub- 
 dued in its earnestness, ' you will cease to look upon it as a 
 duty — it will be your all in religion.' 
 
 ' Papa will be with me to help me and teach me,' said 
 Blanche ; ' that is one great comfort.' 
 
 Mrs Howard sighed, and made no direct answer ; but, rising 
 from her seat, unlocked a cabinet, and taking from it a locket 
 attached to a hair chain, she hung it round Blanche's neck, 
 saying, 'Will you wear it, not only in remembrance of me, 
 but of the day on which it was given you ? The date has been 
 engraved on it, that when you look at it you may be reminded 
 of the vow by which you have bound yourself. — And now, dear 
 child, we must part.' 
 
 Mrs Howard's usually calm voice became low and tremulous. 
 Blanche held the locket in her hand, and gazed on it long and 
 tearfully : and then, placing it within the folds of her dress, she 
 once more received Mrs Howard's fervent blessing, and glided 
 silently from the room. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 "'HE sun was still high in the horizon, when on the following 
 -*- day a travelling carriage was seen standing at the bottom 
 of the steep ascent on the summit of which was built the old 
 baronial Castle of Rutherford. There was apparently some dis- 
 cussion as to its movements, for a servant was engaged in carry- 
 ing messages from his master to the postilions, and the eager 
 tones of a young girl's voice were heard endeavouring to win 
 some compliance with her wishes contrary to the will of her 
 companions. 
 
 ' It will be a pleasure to me to walk, I assure you,' she said \
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 * the distance is but a few hundred yards ; and really I deserve 
 some trouble for having been so foolish as not to watch which 
 way the carriage turned. It will make a considerable difference 
 now to go by the road.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford listened politely, and quietly remarking that 
 Miss Wentworth was under his protection, and that he could 
 on no account leave her till he had seen her safely under her 
 father's care, sent an angry reproof to the postilions for their 
 stupidity, and ordered them to drive round to the rectory. 
 Eleanor looked annoyed, and Blanche raised her eyes to her 
 father's face, to see if it would do to interfere ; but there was 
 an expression in it which was not encouraging. The cheerful 
 smile which had brightened it during the first part of their 
 journey was gone, and, leaning out of the window, he kept his 
 eyes riveted upon the old gray walls appearing in the distance 
 above the trees. 
 
 ' My father ! ' exclaimed Eleanor, as the carriage turned. 
 
 Lord Rutherford withdrew his head, and sank back upon his 
 seat. His mouth grew more stern, his brow was more gloomy 
 than before ; yet it might have been only from the effort to 
 repress some rising agitation, for, as Dr Wentworth approached, 
 a smile of recognition again lighted up his features, and with. 
 a cordial voice, and a warm pressure of the hand, he returned 
 a greeting which might have been termed affectionate. 
 
 ' I have much to thank you for,' he said ; ' but you shall not 
 be detained now : we have a fellow-feeling for our children.' 
 
 Dr Wentworth's mild but strikingly sensible countenance be- 
 trayed some painful thoughts, even as he assisted his daughter 
 to alight, and welcomed her eagerly ; but they were momentary 
 only, and again drawing near the carriage, he said, ' Lady 
 Blanche is almost a stranger ; we have not met, I think, for 
 two years.' 
 
 Blanche bent forward and gave him her hand. Lord Ruther- 
 ford was evidently interested in watching the meeting, yet he 
 looked annoyed rather than pleased with Dr Wentworth's kind 
 expressions of satisfaction. 
 
 ' I am not parting from Eleanor,' said Blanche, in answer to 
 Dr Wentworth's regret that his daughter's return home should 
 be necessarily alloyed by a separation from her friend. ' I wish 
 you would not talk of it : we shall meet, as we have done, 
 every day.' 
 
 Dr Wentworth smiled doubtfully,
 
 24 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' To-morrow Eleanor will be with me the first moment she 
 can be spared/ continued Blanche, gaily ; ' and if that should 
 not be early, I must be with her, and then we will arrange for 
 the future.' 
 
 There was a silent assent, and Eleanor, who had been stand- 
 ing apart, went round to the other side of the carriage to say 
 good-bye. 
 
 ' It is good-bye, really, — for long, for ever in some ways, 
 Blanche,' she whispered. 
 
 Blanche was distressed. 
 
 ' Eleanor, it is cruel to say so ; but time will show.' 
 
 1 Yes, time will show ; ' and, trying to appear indifferent, 
 Eleanor once more said ' good-bye,' and, putting her arm 
 within her father's, turned away. 
 
 Blanche watched them, as they stayed to give some direc- 
 tions to a man who was to follow with the luggage ; and, when 
 at last they were lost to her sight, felt as if Eleanor's words 
 were prophetic. 
 
 But the painful foreboding was soon forgotten. The earl's 
 voice recalled her to happiness ; for, delighted at being freed 
 from all restraint, he now gave free vent to his affection, and 
 pointing to the range of richly-wooded hills, the green meadows, 
 and neat clustering cottages, he told her that all she could see 
 was her own ; that earth for him had but one treasure ; and 
 that, whilst she was spared to him, nothing would add to his 
 enjoyment except by ministering to hers. 
 
 ' Now,' he said, when the winding road brought them full in 
 front of the castle, ' look once more ; there is no view of it like 
 this.' 
 
 Blanche looked, and her heart throbbed within her as she 
 realised for the first time the grandeur of her future home. 
 Rutherford Castle stood upon a high promontory, which rose 
 almost perpendicularly from the banks of a deep-flowing stream. 
 The most ancient part of what had once been a fortress of con- 
 siderable strength was built upon the solid rock, and the huge 
 blocks of masonry could scarcely be distinguished from the im- 
 pregnable walls of nature's formation : but the advance of civili- 
 sation had induced the Lords of Rutherford, from time to time, 
 to add to the original stronghold, at first a lower tower and 
 massive wings, then gateways, and turrets, and quadrangles, till 
 the castle, stretching over the crest of the hill, formed a pile of 
 building which, although irregular in outline, was still as a whole
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 singularly imposing. Immediately in front of the castle was a 
 broad space of smooth turf, and from this the ground to the left 
 fell in a bank thickly planted with trees, which, as it neared the 
 liver, was broken by gray moss-grown rocks. But the most 
 striking points of scenery were not discoverable from below ; and 
 when Blanche clasped her hands in ecstasy, and declared that 
 she had never imagined anything half so beautiful, the earl 
 smiled contentedly, and, bidding the postilions hasten, he sat in 
 silence listening to her exclamations as every step in advance 
 brought them some fresh object of beauty. 
 
 The high battlemented gateway was passed, and the carriage 
 entered the park ; and, after a drive of about half a mile, slowly 
 ascended the hill. As they approached nearer and nearer to the 
 castle, Lord Rutherford roused himself from his leaning posture, 
 and, gazing from the window, seemed endeavouring to recall the 
 Inng-past scenes which were associated with nearly every object 
 that met his eye. Blanche, with an instinctive delicacy of sym- 
 pathy, did not attempt to interrupt him : her pleasure was no 
 longer openly expressed; and it was not till the carriage stopped 
 before the heavy portal, and a glorious landscape, with a fore- 
 ground of rock and river, and a distance of far-spreading woods 
 and pastures, and fields ripening with the golden corn, was dis- 
 closed before her, that she exclaimed, ' Papa, it does not seem 
 like earth ! ' 
 
 At the sound of her sweet voice, the earl awoke from his 
 reverie. ' It shall be paradise to you,' he said, ' if mortal power 
 can make it so ; ' and, alighting from the carriage, he hurried 
 her forward into the hall. 
 
 The servants were assembled to receive them ; and the earl 
 presented Lady Blanche to them as their mistress. ' Your mis- 
 tress now,' he said emphatically, ' as much as she must be in 
 years to come ; ' and as he spoke, many eyes of admiration 
 and respect were turned to the gentle girl, who so gracefully 
 and meekly returned the reverential salutations of her depend- 
 ants. 
 
 Lord Rutherford's impatience scarcely waited till the neces- 
 sary introduction was over. Proudly and firmly he passed on 
 through the splendid apartments ; yet, if Blanche had watched 
 his countenance, she might have seen that all was not equally 
 firm within. It was but the outline of a marble bust which 
 caught his attention, but he quickened his steps and compressed 
 his lips, whilst he turned to see whether the bright fair features
 
 26 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 of his child did indeed resemble the cold but matchless beauty 
 which the hand of art had so exquisitely sculptured. 
 
 Blanche followed him, bewildered by the novelty of her situa- 
 tion and the strangeness of all she saw ; so different from St 
 Ebbe ; s, with its few simple rooms and modern furniture. The 
 dark oaken panellings and grotesque carvings, the rich yet 
 cumbrous cabinets, the heavy gilded cornices, and faded tapes- 
 tries, were of the fashions of centuries past ; and Blanche, 
 though delighted to behold what she had so often in imagination 
 pictured, yet felt something of awe steal over her, as they tra- 
 versed the empty chambers which for years had been disused ; 
 and which, even when the castle was filled with guests, had been 
 considered more as a necessary incumbrance than as at all 
 conducing to its convenience. 
 
 Lord Rutherford read what was passing in her mind. 
 
 ' These are but the vestibules,' he said ; ' the ante-rooms — 
 endurable for appearance, but not habitable. You shall have 
 something different for your own enjoyment; ' and pushing aside 
 some massive folding-doors, he led the way into a hall paved 
 with marble, and partly filled with rare plants. ' They have 
 attended to my orders well,' he observed, as he looked around 
 him with a pleased air ; ' and here are your rooms, Blanche. 
 Look at them, and tell me what more they require.' As he said 
 this, Lord Rutherford entered a small but lofty and very prettily 
 shaped apartment, which, though harmonising with the rest of the 
 castle in its general style, was fitted up with many of the refine- 
 ments of modern luxury. The choice pictures, the piano and 
 harp, the sofas, couches, work-table, and books, and, especially, 
 the flowers with which the vases on the tables were filled, gave 
 Blanche, in an instant, the idea of forethought, and care, and 
 affection ; though, when she tried to express her gratitude, she 
 could find no words to satisfy her feelings. 
 
 The earl, however, did not need words ; he looked at her for 
 a moment with proud delight, whilst in her grace and beauty she 
 stood in the centre of the room, the fitting mistress of all that 
 wealth and love could bestow ; and, after pointing to a small 
 study, opening from the outer room, he said, carelessly, ' We 
 will see the view from this side now, Blanche ; it is different 
 from the other.' 
 
 Blanche followed him through the hall into the garden ; but 
 when she leant over the parapet, which bordered the terrace in 
 front of the window, she started almost with alarm upon clis-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 27 
 
 covering the giddy height at which she stood above the deep 
 river that flowed round the castle. 
 
 To the right, the walls of the keep shut out the view over the 
 distant country ; but immediately before her the ground sank 
 almost perpendicularly, and far, far below gleamed the clear 
 waters of the rapid stream, as it forced its way between the 
 rocky foundations of the castle and the lofty wooded hill which 
 formed its opposite bank. For about the space of a quarter of 
 a mile it was enclosed in a narrow ravine ; but a sharp project- 
 ing point of land then opposing its farther progress, its course 
 was suddenly diverted in a different direction ; and the eye, no 
 longer able to follow its windings, turned rather to the long vista 
 of hills, locked into each other, and capped by the rugged outline 
 of a mountain peak, which formed the termination of the valley. 
 
 The scene was striking even to the earl, accustomed though 
 he was to the varied beauties of other lands ; but to Blanche, as 
 she beheld it for the first time under the dark shadows and bril- 
 liant lights of a soft, yet not cloudless sky, its effect was magical. 
 
 ' It is your home, Blanche,' said the earl, as he stood beside 
 her, watching the feelings that were plainly working in her 
 countenance. 
 
 ' And yours, too, papa,' said Blanche, striving at length to 
 give her father some idea that she appreciated his affection. 
 ' It can never be my paradise without you.' 
 
 ' Then we will make our agreement to-night, my child,' 
 replied the earl ; ' our happiness shall be in each other, — and, 
 whilst we are together, the world shall never intrude upon us 
 with its cares.' 
 
 Blanche smiled sweetly, yet the words so full of hope and 
 happiness fell with something of a discordant sound upon her 
 ear. The serpent had entered into Eden, and how could she 
 dare to anticipate immunity from evil ? The earl, however, 
 seemed at that moment to have no forebodings ; — every trace 
 of sadness had passed from his brow, and his voice was more 
 cheerful than Blanche had yet heard it. He would not, how- 
 ever, allow her to linger longer on the terrace, fearing lest she 
 would be fatigued after the journey ; and, summoning her 
 maid, insisted that she should retire to her room for a short 
 time to rest before she rejoined him for the evening. Blanche, 
 however, did not rest ; she retired indeed, but it was to kneel 
 humbly before her God ; to acknowledge His mercies, and pray 
 that the blessings which He had vouchsafed to grant her might 
 never lead her heart astruv.
 
 2 3 THE EAR US DAUGHTER, 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I F the first waking to a sense of sorrow is bitter almost beyond 
 I- any other moment of suffering, so the first daAvning of hap- 
 piness, at least upon the young, is bright beyond the power of 
 description. Blanche dreamt that she was in the old manor-house 
 of St Ebbe's, grieving over a letter from her father, which, as had 
 so often been the case, gave her no prospect of seeing him. She 
 opened her eyes, and the sun was shining into a spacious, gor- 
 geously-furnished chamber, fitted rather it might seem for the 
 palace of a queen than for her own simple tastes. 
 
 For an instant, she scarcely understood the reality of her 
 senses ; but, as she hastily rose and gazed from the window, a 
 full consciousness of her happiness came over her. There were 
 the old gray castle walls, the silvery stream, the woods and hills, 
 now bathed in morning light, and the distant mountain-peak 
 wreathed with a vapoury mist, — all which she had beheld the 
 previous evening, and which she felt must be for ever associ- 
 ated with the thought of her father's love. It was then very 
 early, but Blanche did not consider the hour, and had no re- 
 membrance of the preceding day's exertion ; and, long before 
 the earl had left his room, she was wandering through the 
 garden and the park, exploring overgrown paths, and mountain 
 hillocks, to gain a clearer idea of the beauties of her new home. 
 Lord Rutherford gently found fault with her, when she appeared 
 at breakfast, for having given herself so much unnecessary 
 fatigue ; but when Blanche gaily declared that she did not feel 
 it, and that she could bear more than many who appeared 
 much stronger, he seemed quite satisfied that she should follow 
 her own fancy, and began to make arrangements for what was 
 to be done during the day. 
 
 ' You will find it but a short walk to the rectory,' he said ; 
 ' and I suppose you will wish to go there the first thing, unless 
 Miss Wentworth should be here soon, which, from what I 
 remember of the family habits, is not very likely. I never 
 could induce Dr Wentworth to leave his books till after 
 luncheon.' 
 
 ' But Eleanor's habits are the habits of St Ebbe's, not of the 
 rectory,' replied Blanche ; ' and she will do whatever she thinks 
 will please me. I should like to go to her, though, extremely.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 29 
 
 I want so much to see more of her family — her sister and her 
 brother — and especially her mother.' 
 
 ' Her sister must be a mere child,' replied the earl ; ' and her 
 brother, I suspect, is away ; and as for Mrs Wentworth, she is 
 not a person to get on with, as it is called. She is very good, 
 and all that ladies always are ; but I never could understand 
 that she was anything more.' 
 
 ' Eleanor is very fond of her mother,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' Yes, my love, very likely she may be ; but I don't want you 
 to be disappointed, and I have no idea that you will be fond of 
 Mrs Wentworth.' 
 
 Blanche, however, was disappointed. She had set her heart 
 upon finding in Mrs Wentworth a second Mrs Howard. 
 
 ' Eleanor used to show me some of her letters,' she said j 
 ' and they made me think she must be almost perfect.' 
 
 Something like a contemptuous smile crossed the earl's face. 
 
 ' You will have different notions of perfection, Blanche,' he 
 said, ' as you grow older. It is not so often to be met with as 
 some people think.' 
 
 Blanche made no reply. That peculiar smile was one to which 
 she was unaccustomed, and Lord Rutherford not continuing the 
 subject, nothing more was said about Mrs Wentworth. 
 
 ' I shall make Eleanor come back with me, and assist in all I 
 have to do,' said Blanche, as her father suggested that there 
 would be ample employment for her in choosing how she would 
 have everything placed in her rooms, and making herself at 
 home in them. ' She promised me she would ; so I had better 
 go to her at once.' 
 
 ' Then we will walk together,' said the earl. ' I must see 
 Wentworth myself, and thank him for the care he has taken in 
 seeing your apartments prepared for your reception.' 
 
 The path to the rectory was much shorter than Blanche had 
 anticipated, leading down the steep hill upon which the castle 
 stood, and then following the course of the river for a little dis- 
 tance, till it terminated at a wicket-gate, which opened into the 
 shrubbery adjoining the house. Blanche was delighted with the 
 neatness and beauty of the small pleasure-ground through which 
 they passed, and the comfortable appearance of the parsonage, 
 with its trellised veranda covered with creepers. She would 
 not have exchanged her own magnificent home for it ; but she 
 felt that there was nothing to give rise in Eleanor's mind to any 
 feelings of envy or discontent. It was the home of affluence, if 
 not of riches.
 
 50 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 The drawing-room was empty when they were shown into ?t, 
 and Blanche had time to recognise many things which Eleanor 
 had described before ; and to study with much interest a like- 
 ness which she was certain must be that of Mrs Wentworth, 
 before any one appeared. 
 
 The first interruption was from a huge Newfoundland dog, 
 which sprang through the open window in bold defiance of the 
 warning voice of his master, who immediately followed. He was 
 a young man, apparently about three or four-and-twenty, tall and 
 rather striking in his appearance, and with a countenance which 
 would have been termed extremely handsome ; but Blanche, as, 
 startled by the intrusion, she turned from the examination of 
 Mrs Wentworth's picture, was less aware that his features were 
 regular, and his manners polished, than that he was not entirely 
 the person she had expected to meet in Eleanor's brother. Such 
 it was evident, from the strong resemblance, he must be. There 
 was cleverness certainly in his bright blue eye, and the high fore- 
 head round which his dark hair was carefully arranged ; and his 
 mouth was good-tempered, though perhaps a little sarcastic ; but 
 a self-satisfaction betrayed itself in his look and general deport- 
 ment, which almost from the first glance Blanche felt to be re- 
 pugnant to her taste. Yet there was little said that could show 
 anything of his disposition. A few apologies were made for his 
 sudden entrance, and a little regret expressed that they should 
 have been kept waiting ; and then Mr Wentworth bowed, and 
 retired, with the intention of seeking his mother and sister, 
 whom he believed were to be found in the garden. 
 
 ' I should have known him anywhere/ exclaimed the earl, 
 when he was gone ; ' and you would, too, I am sure, Blanche. 
 Did you ever see such a likeness ? ' 
 
 ' It is striking, certainly/ replied Blanche, with some hesita- 
 tion ; ' but ' 
 
 ' Well/ said the earl, laughing, 'what is your "but" ? I should 
 have thought it impossible to criticise any thing so regularly 
 handsome.' 
 
 ' I did not mean to criticise, papa/ said Blanche, blushing; 'but 
 I don't think it would please me if Eleanor were exactly ' 
 
 The sentence was not concluded, for Eleanor at that instant 
 appeared, her face bright with pleasure and excitement. 
 
 ' It is so kind, so very kind in you, Blanche/ she said. ' I 
 did not in the least expect you ; for I am sure you must have a^ 
 much to do as I have.' 
 
 ' I have left it all/ replied Blanche, ' till you were with me.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 31 
 
 You know I am never able to please myself ; and you must go 
 back to the castle presently, and help me to arrange my rooms, 
 and then we will settle all sorts of things. But I wanted so 
 much, first, to see your mother and little Susan.' 
 
 'And Charles!' exclaimed Eleanor, eagerly. 'He told us 
 you were here : he came only last night, and he is going away 
 again to-morrow.' 
 
 ' So soon ! ' observed the earl ; ' we shall scarcely have time 
 to make his acquaintance.' 
 
 ' I don't know why he should go,' replied Eleanor ; ' but I 
 don't think he finds as much amusement here as he does else- 
 where. Home is rather dull for a young man.' 
 
 Blanche believed this because she was told it. but it seemed 
 strange. She could not imagine what society any one could want 
 beyond such a sister as Eleanor, such parents as she believed Dr 
 andMrsWentworth to be, and such a home as Rutherford Rectory. 
 
 ' Mamma will be here instantly; she is longing to see you, 
 Blanche,' continued Eleanor. 
 
 ' I think I hear Mrs Wentworth's voice,' said Lord Ruther- 
 ford ; and he went a few paces into the garden to meet her ; 
 but though his words were cordial and easy, his tone was not; 
 and but for Mrs Wentworth's perfect calmness of manner, there 
 might have been something awkward in the meeting. 
 
 Blanche did feel as her father had expected, when Mrs Went- 
 worth advanced towards her, and simply took her hand as she 
 would have done that of an indifferent person. She had ex- 
 pected some show of feeling, at least for Eleanor's sake ; but 
 Mrs Wentworth's soft, quiet voice, underwent no change in its 
 intonation, even when she looked at the earl, and said, ' Lord 
 Rutherford's return will now be doubly welcome to us all.' 
 
 A few trifling observations passed, and Lord Rutherford, with 
 a slight accent of impatience, inquired if there was no hope of 
 seeing Dr Wentworth. 
 
 ' He has been called into the village unexpectedly,' replied 
 Mrs Wentworth : ' but we expect him to return immediately. 
 Can I deliver any message for him ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps I might be allowed to leave a note in his study,' replied 
 the earl. ' I think I know where to find it,' and he left the room. 
 
 Blanche in the meantime had been interested in observing Mrs 
 Wentworth more minutely. She resembled Eleanor's description, 
 in her tall, slight figure, and delicate, though rather harassed- 
 looking countenance ; but there were no traces of the feel- 
 ings which had been so vividly portrayed in her letters. That
 
 32 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 she was Eleanor's mother, Blanche could scarcely believe, as sha 
 watched the eager impetuosity of the one, and the marble frigidity 
 of the other ; still less could she believe that Eleanor could ever 
 dare to unburden her heart to such a mother. And yet the love 
 which she had been told existed between them had been her beau 
 ideal of what the tie between a parent and a child might and 
 ought to be. When Lord Rutherford was gone, however, there 
 was a little change in Mrs Wentworth's manner. The ques- 
 tions which she asked were marked by consideration, and a 
 desire to understand something of Blanche's feelings, at this 
 her first visit to her home ; and though the tone in which they 
 were put was cold, it still betrayed something more of real 
 sympathy than before ; and when Blanche began to express her 
 pleasure in the taste and care which had been shown in fur- 
 nishing her rooms, a quiet smile even stole over Mrs Went- 
 worth's features, and her eye brightened, though she immedi- 
 ately afterwards turned from the subject. But Blanche had not 
 much time for any further remarks. Eleanor insisted upon 
 taking her to the school-room, and the garden and shrubbery', 
 and, as she said, making her at home at once ; and Blanche, 
 only too glad of an excuse to be alone with her, readily fol- 
 lowed. It did not require much time to see the whole, but 
 Blanche lingered with pleasure to listen to all that Eleanor had 
 to say of past enjoyments and future hopes associated with the 
 place in which she had been born, as well as to make acquaint • 
 ance with her sister Susan, an intelligent-looking child, about 
 eight years of age, who was now to be Eleanor's pupil. 
 
 ' I think you must be happy, Eleanor,' she exclaimed, as 
 they seated themselves at length on a garden-seat, in a retired 
 part of the shrubbery. ' I do not see one thing that is want- 
 ing. And you will lead such a useful life.' 
 
 ' I have been talking to papa already about what I am to do,' 
 replied Eleanor. ' I am to teach Susan in the mornings, and 
 to go in the afternoons to see some of the poor people; and 
 sometimes I am to ride with him, and he is going to read with 
 me some part of the day.' 
 
 ' And your music and drawing ? ' said Blanche. 
 
 ' Oh ! I must contrive to have some time before breakfast. 
 You know I cannot arrange for every houi exactly till I have 
 tried ; but that will be the sort of life.' 
 
 ' And what is to become of me ?' said Blanche. 
 
 ' That is what I wished to talk to you about. We must 
 try to manage to go to the poor people together ; and, when
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 33 
 
 Susan has a holiday, I can come up to you in the morning, and 
 we can ride together; and then, these nice summer evenings, 
 there will be no difficulty in meeting.' 
 
 Eleanor spoke eagerly and confidently, and Blanche did not 
 stop to analyse possibilities ; nor did she remark how much her 
 friend had changed since they had parted the preceding 
 evening. She was too much accustomed to Eleanor's varying 
 moods to inquire their cause. 
 
 'I am longing to begin,' continued Eleanor; 'but to-day, 
 you know, is no day, and Charles being here makes such a 
 difference. It is impossible to do anything but idle away one's 
 time with him.' 
 
 Blanche smiled, but she did not wish the subject to be pur- 
 sued ; for she was afraid lest Eleanor might discover that Mr 
 Wentworth, notwithstanding his handsome face and his agree- 
 able manners, did not entirely answer her preconceived expec- 
 tations. 
 
 ' And now I have talked all about myself,' said Eleanor, ' I 
 should like to hear something about yourself — the castle, and 
 your father, and your own rooms. They must be exquisite, I 
 am sure. Mamma had the whole choosing of the furniture, and 
 everything, and she has such taste !' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, she has,' exclaimed Blanche ; ' but I wish I 
 had known it ; I should have thanked her so much more. 
 
 ■ Oh, mamma is not a person to require thanks; she only re- 
 quires to know that you like it : and I saw by her smile just 
 now that she was satisfied. That is her unselfish smile. I be- 
 lieve she would have it if she was in the greatest suffering, if 
 she thought another person was happy.' 
 
 ' I did not know what it meant,' said Blanche; 'but I sup- 
 pose I shall understand you all by and by, when I don't feel so 
 shy.' 
 
 Eleanor laughed. 
 
 ' As to that, Blanche,' she said, ' you have no right to com- 
 plain. The joint wisdom and gravity of my whole family — 
 uncles, aunts, and cousins included, and I have an interminable 
 number — could never be half as awful as Lord Rutherford's 
 politeness. I don't know what I shall do at the castle.' 
 
 ' I think I rather like being afraid of him,' said Blanche. 
 ' Do you remember, Eleanor, how we used to walk up and down 
 the garden at St Ebbe's, and discuss the different kinds of 
 affection ? ' 
 
 c
 
 34 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 And how we always differed ? ' said Eleanor. ' You with 
 your fondness for looking up ; and I with my perverse inclina- 
 tion to look down ; no, not down exactly, but quite on a level.' 
 
 ' And then our appeals to Mrs Howard ? ' said Blanche. 
 ' That will be the one great thing wanting to my happiness. If 
 she were but here ! ' 
 
 ' Yes/ replied Eleanor, ' but she will be with us soon, and 
 then it will be such great, such very great pleasure ; and now, 
 without her, I have more hope of making you think as I do in 
 all sorts of ways ; for she always supported you.' 
 
 ' But,' said Blanche, ' before Mrs Howard talked to us, I 
 never could see anything in your arguments to convince me that 
 love is greatest when persons are on an equality ; and there is 
 one thing, you know, entirely against it, devotion — which is the 
 highest and purest love.' 
 
 ' I can't follow you in an argument, Blanche, to-day,' ex- 
 claimed Eleanor ; ' my mind is not up to it, as it is sometimes.' 
 
 Blanche looked disappointed. ' I thought,' she said, < that 
 you would let me talk of these things always.' 
 
 ' Yes, so you shall ; but I don't think I am in that sort of 
 sober mood to-day ; I am too happy.' 
 
 ' I am happy, too,' said Blanche ; ' but my ecstasies went 
 away with my walk this morning, and I don't wish them to last.' 
 
 ' Mine never do,' replied Eleanor, laughing ; ' so I am in no 
 fear. I shall pay dearly for all my enjoyment before night 
 comes, I daresay. It would be much better to be like you, 
 Blanche ; your ecstasies never go quite away, I am sure, though 
 you say they do.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Blanche, ' certainly I don't feel much of 
 them at this moment ; and some feelings you have which are 
 much more lasting than mine.' 
 
 Blanche spoke as she thought, truly ; yet it was only her own 
 humility, and a natural respect for Eleanor's talents and decided 
 opinions, which could have blinded her to the fact, that Eleanor 
 was in reality swayed by every passing impulse ; that she ex- 
 pressed herself strongly, but that she acted weakly. And if 
 Blanche had been quicker in discerning, Eleanor would have 
 felt greater hesitation in owning her faults. But it required no 
 effort to lament changeableness and hastiness, and the defects 
 of an enthusiastic temperament, when she was sure to be met 
 with a quick refutation of her sell-accusations, and to hear in- 
 stances adduced which apparently proved her to be the very
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 reverse of what she acknowledged. It was one of the weak- 
 nesses of Blanche's character, that where she loved she could 
 not or would not see anything amiss. ' I must try and be 
 regular in my habits,' she said, pursuing the conversation ; ' but 
 I am afraid it will be very difficult. I should like especially to 
 know something of the poor people, if your papa will put me in 
 the way.' 
 
 ' Papa hopes you will take a great interest in them,' said 
 Eleanor ; ' he told me this morning that it was of immense con- 
 sequence to you and to them ; and he talked a great deal about 
 the vast power, either for good or evil, which had been placed 
 in your hands.' 
 
 ' In mine ! ' exclaimed Blanche ; ' now, when I am so young ! ' 
 
 ' But you are not going to remain young always,' replied 
 Eleanor ; ' and besides, whether young or old, you are still 
 Lady Blanche Evelyn, the heiress of Rutherford.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Blanche, with a deep sigh, which made 
 Eleanor laugh heartily. 
 
 ' You are the very strangest person, Blanche ! Just think how 
 many thousands there are in the world who would envy you.' 
 
 ' And I am to be envied,' exclaimed Blanche, ' for my 
 friends, — for papa, and Mrs Howard, and .you ; — and for my 
 health too, and my education, and innumerable things ; but not 
 because I was born to have power. ; 
 
 ' Yes, if you exercise it properly,' said Eleanor. 
 
 ' If ! but there is a doubt. Mrs Howard is afraid of me ; 
 she thinks I shall be spoilt, and that papa will not tell me of my 
 faults. O Eleanor ! it might be very different if I had a 
 mother.' 
 
 ' You may have one, if you choose,' replied Eleanor ; 'mamma 
 is already inclined to feel for you as her child.' 
 
 Blanche did not receive the comfort which was expected from 
 this assurance : her notion of a mother's affection was of some- 
 thing widely different from Mrs Wentworth's cold shake of the 
 hand. ' Your mamma is very kind,' she said ; ' I am sure she 
 will do everything she can to help me. But still I must be left 
 very much to myself ; and, even during the few hours I have 
 been at home, I have understood more of what Mrs Howard 
 meant. The castle is so grand, and the servants seem almost 
 to bow before me ; and as for papa, he watches my every look, 
 that I may not have a wish ungratified ; and when I awoke this 
 morning, and saw my beautiful room, I did not feel as I used to
 
 36 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 do at St Ebbe's ; I thought that I could order more and have 
 my own will ; and then I remembered what Mrs Howard said, 
 and I was frightened.' 
 
 Eleanor was touched by this simple confession. That which 
 caused alarm to Blanche, would, she well knew, have passed 
 unnoticed by herself. ' You will be used to it all, dear Blanche, 
 by and by/ she said ; ' and then you will not think so much 
 about it, and worry yourself ; and I daresay we shall both be 
 able to go on steadily ; and, if you want to know the poor 
 people, we can go to them together. The first person we must 
 find out is the blind girl who was confirmed with us. Papa 
 says he knows who she is very well ; it was her aunt, who is the 
 mistress of the Charity School, that she was staying with ; but 
 she is coming back directly. We will go and see her the first 
 day we can, won't we ? ' 
 
 Even this shadow of a duty was some relief to poor Blanche, 
 whose conscience had a natural tendency to become morbidly 
 sensitive ; and Eleanor saw that she had struck upon the right 
 chord. Anxious to make Blanche feel as light-hearted as her- 
 self, she continued to plan a scheme of duties and occupations, 
 so cleverly and earnestly, that before the conversation was inter- 
 rupted both were equally satisfied. Eleanor having talked her- 
 self into the belief that she was certainly devoted to a useful 
 life ; and Blanche, having listened, till she was persuaded that, 
 with such a friend constantly at hand to remind her of neglects, 
 she could never go far astray. 
 
 The afternoon was spent at the castle, where Blanche found 
 sufficient to occupy and interest both herself and Eleanor in the 
 arrangement of her rooms ; and when they parted, it was with 
 the agreement that, if the earl had no other plan for the ensuing 
 day, they were to walk together into the village. ' And if he 
 wishes me to ride with him, instead,' said Blanche, ' I must ask 
 him to let me come to you for an hour in the evening.' 
 
 Eleanor willingly agreed, delighted to find that as yet there 
 was no cause for jealousy, since even the society of Lord 
 Rutherford did not make Blanche forget her.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 37 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AND so passed the first day of Blanche's residence at 
 Rutherford Castle ; and so passed several days ; varied, 
 indeed, by drives, and rides, and books, and visits, both to rich 
 and poor, but all equally bright and unalloyed, for the petty 
 disappointments and trifling- vexations from which no care and 
 no affection can guard us, were little felt by one who carried 
 in her own breast a shield against them. Each morning, long 
 before the earl was awake, Blanche knelt in the solitude of her 
 own chamber to pray for guidance during the day : and then, 
 with her Bible in her hand, paced the broad terrace overhanging 
 the river, that she might study the will of her Maker, amid the 
 scenes which brought His power and goodness most clearly to 
 her view. Each day she planned her occupations with a view 
 to her own improvement, her father's happiness, and the com- 
 fort of those who were in a measure entrusted to her care ; and 
 not the most busy hour, nor the most absorbing pursuit, could 
 lead her to forget that it was needful to withdraw some moments 
 from this world to devote to the contemplation of another. Mrs 
 Howard had early implanted in her mind habits of order and 
 punctuality ; and, duly as the time came which she had fixed 
 upon as the most free from interruption, Blanche retired to her 
 own chamber to consider what she had done since last engaged 
 in the same duty ; or, if prevented at the same exact minute, 
 the first leisure opportunity was eagerly seized upon, without any 
 regard to the plausible excuses, which might easily have been 
 made from weariness or a pre-occupied mind. Blanche never 
 forgot Mrs Howard's words, ' Not, I will if I can, but I must.' 
 And one especial reason she now had for allowing nothing to 
 interfere with her religious duties, in the hope of being so soon 
 admitted to the full communion of the Church, and the anxiety 
 fitly to prepare herself. 
 
 On the second Sunday after Blanche appeared in the old 
 village church of Rutherford, the accustomed invitation was 
 given to all ' such as should be religiously and devoutly dis- 
 posed,' and as Blanche listened to the words, a feeling of loneli- 
 ness stole over her. Eleanor was near, with the mother, who 
 could share every thought and feeling ; and the father, whose 
 voice faltered, as his eye rested upon the countenance of the
 
 38 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 child he so dearly loved, and to whom for the first time the 
 exhortation was addressed. And Blanche stood in that sacred 
 building, with but one exception, the noblest and wealthiest of 
 all ; and with her was the proud earl whose sternest will would 
 have yielded to her wishes, as the humblest of his servants would 
 have submitted to his ; but the one great blessing which she 
 then desired, a parent's sympathy and advice on the subject 
 most deeply concerning her happiness, was denied her. 
 
 Upon this topic alone no word had passed between them — . 
 they met in the morning and the world was the theme of their 
 conversation ; they parted at night and no words of prayer were 
 uttered to call for a blessing upon the midnight hour. Poetry, 
 and painting, and music, and literature, and even the deeper 
 subjects of science and philosophy, were all at times introduced, 
 and Blanche with her natural refinement and superiority of mind 
 was fascinated by the earl's eloquent language and exquisite 
 taste. His words were as the words of enchantment ; for, as 
 he spoke of Italy and Greece, and the sunny islands of the 
 south, even Blanche forgot for the moment that earth was but 
 the stepping-stone to heaven ; its beauty, but a type of that 
 which shall be hereafter; its genius and its learning, but the 
 feint and misused relics of that perfect creation which only 
 when it issued taintless from the hands of its Creator, was pro- 
 nounced to be ' very good.' But the earl ceased, and Blanche 
 was left to her own meditations, and then as she retraced the 
 conversation and sought for something which should be treasured 
 in her memory, a vague sense of unsatisfactoriness filled her 
 mind. A glittering pageant seemed to have passed before her ; 
 but it was gone. And of what avail was it to her to have 
 vividly realised the solemn beauty of Genoa, and the dazzling 
 lustre, of Naples ; to have wandered in fancy beneath the vast 
 dome of St Peter's ; or stood amidst the giant ruins of the 
 Coliseum ; to have floated in the dark gondolas of Venice, or 
 gazed upon the blue waters of the Mediterranean ; or how could 
 it content her to hear of Raphael, and Michael Angelo, and 
 Guido ; — of Dante and Ariosto, and Tasso and Petrarch, and 
 the names which associate Italy with all that is most precious 
 in poetry and art, if all were but for the amusement of the hour, 
 bearing no voice of warning from the past, no lesson of instruc- 
 tion for the future ? But Blanche did not yet understand all 
 she had to fear. She marvelled indeed at her father's apparent 
 neglect of the subject most interesting to herself; she thought
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER 39 
 
 it strange that not even an allusion was made to it : but she 
 was captivated by the brilliancy of his conversation, and ac- 
 counted for his silence by remembering her own reluctance to 
 converse upon serious subjects, except at peculiar times and 
 under certain circumstances. She had been told that her own 
 manner gave no true impression of her mind, and so she sup- 
 posed it must be with him. A faint cloud was stealing over 
 the sunlight of her joy, but she saw it not. 
 
 And the day drew near to which Blanche so earnestly looked 
 forward with mingled hope and awe. It was the evening before, 
 and having returned from a long ride with her father over one 
 of the most beautiful portions of his property, she sat down on 
 a bank which overlooked the windings of the river, and the 
 opening into the country beyond. 
 
 There was nothing to disturb the repose of the scene, except 
 the distant lowing of cattle in the pastures, and the dashing of 
 a mountain torrent, which, escaping from a woody dell on the 
 opposite side, fell sparkling and frothing over a steep broken 
 cliff, and wound its way amidst stones and mosses till it was 
 lost in the deep current of the larger stream. 
 
 Blanche rested her head against the trunk of a tree, and gave 
 way to one of those delicious reveries of feeling rather than of 
 thought, which, when the fancy is free, and the heart unburdened 
 by care, are amongst the most perfect enjoyments of our early 
 yea ;. 
 
 The loveliness of the landscape was in accordance with the 
 tone of mind which she had been endeavouring to attain during 
 the day ; and when, at length yielding to fatigue, she fell asleep, 
 the images which haunted her dreams were pure and holy as 
 her waking thoughts. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards there was the sound of an approach- 
 ing footstep ; and, advancing from the shade of the shrubbery, 
 the earl stood by her side. 
 
 What could he have seen in a countenance so fair in its 
 youthful purity, to make him start and sigh — and then gaze long 
 and steadfastly with a frowning brow, and a mouth quivering 
 with agitation ? Was it that in those features he saw a re- 
 semblance which recalled the tale of his by-gone life ; or did he 
 read the visions which were passing before the eye of his sleep- 
 ing child, and shrink from the conviction that the hopes which 
 to her were all in all, were to him scarcely more than the super- 
 stitions of an age of darkness ?
 
 40 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Yet, Lord Rutherford was no sceptic. He was but what 
 thousands have been before him ; in name, the follower of 
 Christ — in heart, the slave of the world. Whatever might be 
 his own indifference to religion, he had no desire that it should 
 be shared by his daughter, and the character of Lady Blanche 
 often derived a peculiar though painful interest from the simple 
 ardent piety which occasionally broke forth through her natural 
 reserve ; and which, to the earl's refined but hackneyed taste, 
 gave her the appearance rather of a being from another sphere 
 than of one born to participate in the vain heartlessness of 
 fashionable society. He could admire, though he could not 
 imitate ; and now, as he watched her, so calm, and peaceful, 
 and tranquilly happy, a pang of envy crossed his mind. Such 
 peace as hers, even were it delusive, would be cheaply pur- 
 chased at the sacrifice of all that he had hitherto valued. Yet, 
 it was envy, not self-reproach ; and the next moment he 
 pictured her such as he intended she should be — the star of a 
 glittering assemblage — flattered, courted, idolised; gathering 
 around her all that was most attractive in grace and intellect ; 
 herself the centre to which every eye would be directed in 
 homage. 
 
 But the earl's countenance changed. In imagination there 
 rose up before him the still, shrouded form of one, who, in by- 
 gone years, had realised much that he desired to see in Blanche, 
 but upon whose brow the sorrow of unrequited affection had set 
 its indelible stamp ; and when his eye again dwelt upon the 
 living image of the wife whose love he had despised, he shud- 
 dered, and stooped to kiss his daughter's forehead with super- 
 stitious awe ; and a passing dread, lest the features which bore 
 the impress of life might but chill him with the mocking beauty 
 of death. The kiss awoke Blanche from her short sleep ; and 
 the earl, hastily recovering himself, began to blame her im- 
 prudence. Blanche endeavoured to laugh away his fears, but 
 proposed to return to the castle, as she had an engagement to 
 keep. 
 
 ' And not spare me a few minutes ? ' said the earl, with a 
 slight tone of pique ; ' the sun will have set soon, and then we 
 shall have no temptation to stay.' 
 
 Blanche gathered up the folds of her riding-habit, and taking 
 her father's arm they pursued their walk by the path which led 
 along the side of the hill. For some time both were silent. 
 Blanche could never thoroughly overcome a certain sense of
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 41 
 
 restraint in her father's presence ; and Lord Rutherford, wrapt 
 in his own thoughts, was contented to know that she was with 
 him without seeking for conversation. Blanche was the first to 
 speak. 
 
 'I never knew till now,' she said, 'what it was thoroughly 
 to enjoy beautiful scenery. At St Ebbe's, there was so little to 
 see ; but, even then, I used to fancy there must be an exquisite 
 charm in it.' 
 
 ' You are young,' replied the earl ; ' you have no painful 
 associations. When you have reached my age you will feel 
 very differently about all beauty.' 
 
 'Yet some feelings of pleasure must increase,' replied Blanche, 
 more gravely than usual ; ' the best and highest.' 
 
 ' From being able to appreciate beauty better, you mean ? 
 from learning to look at it with an artist's eye ? But that is a 
 mistake ; our greatest enjoyments are those which we never 
 pause to analyse.' 
 
 ' I was not thinking of that exactly,' said Blanche, with 
 hesitation. 
 
 ' Of what then, my love ? What do you call the best and 
 highest pleasure ? ' 
 
 Blanche hesitated, and then replied timidly, as if doubtful of 
 the manner in which the observation would be received, ' I sup- 
 pose, if we were very good, we should be grateful for beauty, as 
 people are for favours and presents.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford became suddenly thoughtful. ' You are a 
 metaphysician, Blanche,' he said, after a pause ; ' that was not 
 one of the accomplishments I expected from Mrs Howard.' 
 
 1 If I am,' replied Blanche, laughing ; 'it is certainly without 
 knowing it.' 
 
 ' You are one, though. I have discovered a lurking taste in 
 you before ; and if you really have a fancy for the subject, we 
 will study a few books together on the subject. I should be 
 sorry for you to have prejudiced notions. Though you are a 
 woman, a little deep reading will do you no harm.' 
 
 Blanche promised to read anything he wished, though she 
 still disclaimed any love for metaphysics ; and the earl began to 
 enumerate a list of authors, ending with — 
 
 ' But, my dear Blanche, until you have read a little, I advise 
 you not to trouble yourself with too much thinking. You will 
 only be puzzled, and it can lead to no good. Take up your 
 music and drawing, study history if you will, and we will have
 
 42 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Italian and German lessons together; but don't attempt to 
 dwell upon subjects beyond human comprehension.' 
 
 Poor Blanche could not at all understand the reason of this 
 speech ; and began to fancy that she had done or said some- 
 thing wrong. 
 
 The earl instantly remarked her change of manner, and said 
 kindly, ' I would not for the world find fault with you, my dear ; 
 you must not imagine it ; but I have seen the mischief of too 
 much thought with some minds, and you have been unusually 
 silent the last two days ! ' 
 
 ' It was not that kind of thought which made me silent,' ex- 
 claimed Blanche, eagerly ; ' I was thinking of 
 
 ' Of what ? — there can be no thought which you would not 
 wish me to know.' 
 
 Blanche blushed deeply ; she would willingly have sheltered 
 herself under her former reserve, though at the same time long- 
 ing to break down the .barrier, and receive the sympathy which 
 even then she could not doubt of obtaining. The earl evidently 
 expected a reply. 
 
 Blanche felt herself forced to speak, and began : ' I have 
 been thinking ; that is, I have been trying to think ; — one 
 ought to prepare one's self for to-morrow. My first communion,' 
 she added, in a tone which scarcely caught the earl's ear. 
 
 He stopped suddenly in his walk. ' Ah ! yes ; quite right. 
 But you are very young, my dear.' 
 
 ' Not too young ; am I ? ' said Blanche, anxiously ; ' I have 
 been confirmed.' 
 
 ' No, not if you wish it ; still it is not right to force any one. 
 Mrs Howard was always rather overstrained in her ideas.' 
 
 ' Indeed, indeed, it was not Mrs Howard only ; but the 
 rector, and the bishop, and every one said it. I thought it was 
 always so,' replied Blanche. ' Is there really any reason 
 against it ? ' 
 
 The earl smiled. '■ No possible reason, my dear child ; but 
 you know very little of the world, and I don't want you to tie 
 yourself down ; and in fact, my love, these things are best left 
 to every one's own feelings. If you like it, do it by all means ; 
 only don't let me see your bright face clouded again ; it makes 
 me uneasy.' 
 
 Poor Blanche felt chilled to the very heart. 
 
 But her father had no idea of the effect of his speech, and 
 continued, ' It might have been more pleasant for you to have
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 43 
 
 waited a little. I am expecting your aunt, Lady Charlton, 
 shortly ; and Sir Hugh and your two cousins. You will like to 
 become acquainted with them, as they are some of your nearest 
 connections.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed,' exclaimed Blanche, relieved at finding some- 
 thing to say. ' Dear mamma's sister ! I am sure I must be 
 fond of her.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford's tone was constrained, as he answered, 
 ' Only her half-sister ; there is no resemblance ; ' and then he 
 stopped suddenly, and there was a long pause. 
 
 The thoughts of Blanche reverted to the former subject. The 
 visit of one person or of hundreds— of relations or of strangers 
 — seemed equally indifferent to her at that moment. 
 
 They had reached the termination of the path ; and the 
 earl, leaning over a fence, which protected the edge of the 
 precipice, riveted his eyes upon the stream, and appeared lobt 
 in a reverie. 
 
 ' It is like the current of human life, is it not, Blanche ? ' he 
 said, at length. ' See how it whirls its rapid course ; and how 
 the light froth, and the fragments of the bank, are borne along 
 by it ; like the frothy hopes and the fleeting pleasures of the 
 world. And think, too, how little we know of the end to which 
 it is hastening.' 
 
 ' Is it not travelling towards the ocean,' said Blanche, timidly ; 
 ' as we are all travelling towards eternity ? ' 
 
 Lord Rutherford raised himself, and put his hand suddenly 
 upon her shoulder. — ' What is eternity, Blanche?' he said. 'We 
 use words without meaning, when we speak of it.' 
 
 ' But,' replied Blanche— and notwithstanding the softness of 
 her voice it sounded tremulous in its earnestness — 'we are told 
 to think of it, and it must be for our happiness ; for this world, 
 they say, is full of disappointment.' 
 
 ' They say ! ' repeated the earl ; ' then you have never found 
 it so yourself.' 
 
 ' I have been very happy,' said Blanche, whilst she looked at 
 her father with a smile of affection ; but it was followed by & 
 sigh. She could not say, ' I am happy.' 
 
 ' Yes,' continued the earl, thoughtfully, ' you are standing, as 
 I once stood, upon a spot from which you can view the past 
 without regret, and the future without fear. For you it may be 
 a resting-place for years ; though for me it was but a point, 
 quitted as soon as reached, and to which I could never return.
 
 44 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Value your peace, my child, whilst you have it ; for it is vain 
 to hope that any thoughts of eternity will restore it to you when 
 it is once gone.' 
 
 1 But, papa,' answered Blanche, firmly, whilst something 
 within her own mind seemed urging her to overcome her reserve 
 and speak more directly, ' even now I can feel comfort from 
 such thoughts. I have been happy, because I have always had 
 some one to love ; but though 1 know that the happiness can- 
 not last, I can bear to think so, and even to look forward to a 
 time when I may be left quite alone ; because true love does not 
 seem to belong to earth, but to eternity. Is it not true, then, 
 that these ideas do help us to bear trials ? ' 
 
 Lord Rutherford made no answer ; he withdrew his arm, 
 threw himself upon a bench, and relapsed into silence. Blanche 
 was frightened at her own temerity, and a sense of indescribable 
 wretchedness oppressed her. Her father's principles, she 
 thought, could not be the principles of a Christian. The earl 
 perceived he had distressed her, and starting up and again 
 drawing her arm within his, said, as he pursued his walk — 
 
 ' I have vexed you, my dear child. Heaven knows how un- 
 willingly ! But you have been educated in retirement, and 
 your life has been made up of dreams. It is impossible that 
 you should understand the view which a stern, worn man, who 
 lias borne the struggle of years, takes of those subjects, which 
 to you are everything. When you have heard them discussed 
 and argued upon, and when you have known something of men's 
 actions as well as of their creeds, you will see the value of your 
 favourite notions more truly. They may be important to you, 
 but they will not bear contact with the world.' 
 
 ' And must I know the world, papa ? ' inquired Blanche, with 
 difficulty summoning courage to answer. ' I would much rather 
 live here alone with you.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford laughed. 
 
 ' Mrs Howard has certainly performed her duty strictly,' he 
 said. ' She promised to educate you in seclusion, and she has 
 kept her word. But have you no wish for gaiety, Blanche ; or 
 such an introduction into the world as your station in life offers 
 
 vou ? ' 
 
 < I should like it, dear papa,' replied Blanche ; ' and I think 
 of it very often. But I would rather stay here and keep my 
 own notions, because I believe they will make me better than 
 any others.'
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 45 
 
 ' Well ! ' exclaimed the earl, carelessly, ' cherish them as 
 long as you can ; they will do no one any harm but yourself ; 
 only, when your aunt and cousins come, I prophesy that you 
 will chink less about them.' 
 
 Poor Blanche was not comforted by this prospect. 
 
 'Then I shall be happier, to-morrow, with you alone, papn,' 
 she said, pointedly ; anxious, if possible, to solve, by some 
 allusion to the first topic of the conversation, the painful doubt 
 whether her father intended to join with her in the service of 
 the next day. 
 
 Lord Rutherford did not, at first, see that she had any par- 
 ticular meaning in her words ; for the subject referred to was 
 not one likely long to remain in his thoughts. When, however, 
 it occurred to him, he answered hastily — - 
 
 ' You must talk to Mrs Wentworth, my dear : she will under- 
 stand you in all these things better than I do.' 
 
 ' I don't know Mrs Wentworth well,' replied Blanche, whilst 
 tears rushed to her eyes ; ' and there is no one I love like you.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford played with his stick, but said nothing more ; 
 and, at length, when he saw that Blanche was again about to 
 speak, he turned suddenly into another walk and left her. And 
 then Blanche was indeed miserable. The sky and the woods, 
 the rocks and the river, the beauties which had before entranced 
 her with delight — all were changed. Their brightness was 
 gone ; the spell by which they had charmed her was destroyed. 
 She was alone ; and there lived not the being upon earth who 
 could fill the void which that one conversation had caused in 
 her heart. Who could recall the reverence and holy affection 
 which had, till then, formed her dream of happiness in her splen- 
 did home ? Who could restore the delusion which hitherto she 
 had cherished, even against her own secret convictions ? 
 
 But the spirit of youth is too buoyant to sink at once under 
 any disappointment, however severe. It is the succession of 
 griefs, the wearisome days, and the restless nights and the 
 bitterness of long-deferred hope, which at length will bow us to 
 the dust ; and Blanche had, as yet, known nothing of these. 
 Her elastic, sanguine spirit again suggested the thought from 
 which she had before found comfort. Her father's manner, 
 and even his words, might be no true index to his mind. He 
 had not said that he should not be with her ; he had fully 
 allowed that it would be right for her to attend the service, 
 though he seemed to fear that she was too young. Persons
 
 46 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 had different opinions upon these subjects ; perhaps, after 
 all, she had misunderstood him ; and, soothed by the idea, 
 Blanche's countenance resumed, in some degree, its former 
 serenity. The suspense, however, still rested as a weight upon 
 her heart. She met her father at dinner, and found herself 
 almost unconsciously watching his looks, and weighing his 
 words, in the faint hope of learning from them something m.ore 
 of that inner world of principles and motives upon which all 
 her happiness seemed to depend. But she learned nothing 
 The earl was silent and pre-occupied, and she dared not ask 
 him the cause. When the castle clock struck ten, Blanche, as 
 was her custom, rose to retire to rest. Then, more than ever, 
 she missed the prayers which had closed the evenings at St 
 Ebbe's. Hitherto she had accounted for the omission by sup- 
 posing either that her father had some reason for delay until 
 they had been longer settled at home, or that it was not a 
 foreign custom, and therefore he might not think of it till some 
 other person suggested it ; but now it appeared too truly an 
 indication of the neglect of all religious forms, except that 
 which the world has thought fit to honour with respect, the 
 outward observance of the day of rest. 
 
 Blanche leant over her father's chair, and kissed his forehead 
 again and again, as was her wont. Her love was not chilled, 
 but it was altered. Doubt was mingled with it, and dread, and 
 the fond clinging of the heart to happiness which seems about 
 to pass away. The earl looked up from his book, and as he 
 took her trembling hand in his, he said — - 
 
 ' We have been bad companions to-night, Blanche : are you 
 tired of me ? ' 
 
 A fear of losing self-command made Blanche pause before 
 answering. Lord Rutherford moved his chair, that he might 
 discover the reason ; but she had turned her head aside. 
 
 ' You shall have other amusements soon,' continued the earl, 
 and an accent of annoyance marked his words. 
 
 ' Oh no, papa ! I want nothing — no amusements.' 
 
 ' But what then ? What do you want ? ' 
 
 Blanche was pained at her own weakness ; she could only 
 distress her father by showing her feelings, since to explain 
 them was impossible. 
 
 ' I wish for one thing, papa,' she said in a light, gay tone, 
 whilst her lip quivered with agitation, ' that yon should kiss me 
 and say good-night.'
 
 7ir^ hZRL'Si DAUGHTER. 47 
 
 The earl pressed her to her heart, and whispered, ' God bless 
 you now and ever, my own precious child ; ' and Blanche re- 
 treated to her room, once more happy. Her father did then 
 consider the blessing of God the one first object of desire. 
 Surely, therefore, he must intend to seek it where especially it 
 is bestowed. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WE close our eyes in peace, and we re-open them to sorrow 
 and care. It is the lot, sooner or later, of all — the ful- 
 filment of the earthly curse denounced upon our first parents, and 
 from it there is no escape. We may, perhaps, have felt, upon lying 
 down to rest, — the anxieties of the day at an end, the weariness 
 of exhausted nature inviting us to repose, and the heart calmed 
 by repentance, and the blessed trust in forgiveness and pro- 
 tection, — that if it were then permitted for the Angel of Death 
 to call us to our long, last sleep, the summons, awful though it 
 must ever be, would be hailed rather as a visitation of mercy, 
 than as an event to be shrunk from in alarm. But God ' seeth 
 not as man sceth.' He views the sins dormant, but not de- 
 stroyed; the passions lulled, but not extinguished. He beholds 
 us unfit for the kingdom of His holiness, and knows the warfare 
 which must be endured, before the powers of a regenerate 
 nature can fully triumph over the temptations of Satan. And 
 if, at times, He does in mercy make us ' to lie down in green 
 pastures, and lead us beside the still waters,' it is only that by 
 such seasons of refreshment we may gather strength for the 
 battle, which is to ' bring every thought into captivity to the 
 obedience of Christ/ 
 
 When Blanche entered Rutherford Church, the ensuing day, 
 she felt but little of the peace which had been with her when 
 she lay down to rest at night. A breakfast fete-d-tite with the 
 earl, and a few remarks during their short walk from the castle 
 to the village, had again aroused her distrust. Many such 
 remarks had been made before, but they had fallen on an 
 unheeding ear, or rather on one which did not understand, 
 because it would not suspect evil. Now, the petty indications 
 of motives and feeling, which it is not in the power of the most 
 practised art to conceal, were as daggers to her heart, for they
 
 48 THE EARL'S dUGUHTER. 
 
 struck upon the points on which alone her earthly happiness 
 was then vulnerable. 
 
 At any time a doubt which affected her father's principles 
 must have been poignantly felt ; but on no other occasion could 
 it have caused so much suffering. For Blanche had striven 
 humbly and earnestly to realise the awfulness of that most holy 
 service in which she was then, for the first time, to be permitted 
 to join. She had prayed and watched against the entrance of 
 every unhallowed or worldly thought, and had dedicated herself 
 to her Saviour with all the warmth and sincerity of youthful 
 devotedness. At such a moment, even the purest of earthly 
 affections might have been deemed intrusive ; and yet, when 
 she knelt in the temple of God, and bowed her head in rever- 
 ence, and opened her lips in prayer, there arose in her heart, 
 not feelings of faith and hope, but of sadness and fear. The 
 words of confession were repeated, but the earl's voice at her 
 side pronounced the same language in a tone of proud indiffer- 
 ence, and Blanche forgot the repentance necessary for her own 
 sins, in anguish lest he should be insensible to his. And praises, 
 and thanksgivings, and intercessions, were uttered with a wan- 
 dering mind ; and the solemn declarations of Scripture received 
 but a half attention ; whilst she caught, as if by fascination, 
 her father's restless eye and listless posture, and then turned in 
 wretchedness to herself, to discover that she also, though not :n 
 like manner, was sinning against God. There was a painful 
 struggle in her heart whilst going through the usual service. 
 To be distracted then, seemed a miserable evidence of weakness 
 and insincerity; and to present herself before God with thoughts 
 clinging to earth, a fearful presumption. Once it seemed easier 
 and better to delay — to wait for another opportunity — to risk 
 anything rather than offer a divided heart ; but at that moment 
 the voice of the preacher spoke of Him who ' in that He him- 
 self hath suffered, being tempted, is able to succour them that 
 are tempted ; ' and, instead of giving way to despondency, 
 Blanche prayed the more fervently to be pardoned and assisted, 
 whilst she strove again to recall her scattered thoughts. The 
 last words of the sermon were ended ; the concluding prayers 
 were said, there was a solemn stillness in the church, followed 
 by the rush of movement and departing footsteps. No tones 
 of joy or praise were heard, whilst one by one they who were 
 unwilling or unable to remain, left the congregation ; but silently 
 and hastily they poured forth into the open air — some, it might
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 49 
 
 be, to grieve for the blessing of which they felt themselves un- 
 fitted to partake ; but too many to stifle the reproaches of con- 
 science in the cares and follies of the world. 
 
 Blanche looked at her father, as he seated himself by her 
 side, and her heart bounded with joy ; but, as the church be- 
 came more empty, the earl rose, and stood for a few instants 
 with his hat in his hand, and when the way of retreat was at 
 last opened without fear of mixing himself with the crowd, he, 
 too, followed the common example. 
 
 And the door was closed. 
 
 It was a moment of bitter, most bitter sorrow — beyond it we 
 may not look ; but when Blanche left the church she no longer 
 felt that she was alone. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ' 1 ADY BLANCHE is late in coming to you this morning ; 
 J — ' is she not, Eleanor?' said Mrs Wentworth, as the 
 luncheon-bell rang, and little Susan ran away to prepare for 
 what was to be her dinner. 
 
 ' Rather, I think,' was the reply ; ' but Blanche is never quite 
 mistress of her own time. Her father is so uncertain, and will 
 make her do the very things she has determined not to do. He 
 may have taken her for a ride, as likely as not.' 
 
 ' Strange, certainly,' said Mrs Wentworth, musingly, ' that 
 when a man like Lord Rutherford devotes himself to the happi- 
 ness of his daughter, he should manage to do just the very 
 things she does not like.' 
 
 1 Oh ! indeed, mamma ! ' exclaimed Eleanor ; ' I do think 
 you are wrong there. Blanche does like most things which her 
 father proposes ; the only worry is that they come at the wrong 
 time.' 
 
 ' And does she like, then, the prospect of having the castle 
 filled with visitors, and of gaieties going on continually?' in- 
 quired Mrs Wentworth, with a slight tone of asperity, which 
 suited but little with her usual gentleness. 
 
 'Yes, very much,' replied Eleanor. ' Lady Charlton is a de- 
 lightful person ; so every one declares. And it will be very nice 
 for me, too.' 
 
 D
 
 So THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mrs Wentworth seemed rather discomposed. ' You must re* 
 member, my dear/ she said, ' that what suits Lady Blanche will 
 not suit you. Your line of duties will be totally different.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, of course, mamma ; ' and Eleanor coloured, and en- 
 deavoured to assume an indifferent air ; ' but you know there is 
 no one whom Blanche loves as she does me ; and she never 
 will enjoy anything if I am not with her.' 
 
 ' Then I am afraid she will pass a very unhappy life ; for you 
 can be with her but seldom at the best.' 
 
 ' It is not exactly the being together, but the feeling that we 
 are near, and understand each other, and can compare opinions, 
 which is the pleasure ; — and ' 
 
 ' Well,' interrupted Mrs Wentworth, ' compare opinions if 
 you like it, and sympathise with and love each other — I should 
 be very sorry if you did not ; but that does not imply the neces- 
 sity of meeting every day, especially now.' 
 
 ' You are afraid for me, mamma/ said Eleanor, laughing. 
 1 You think I shall become dissipated, and forget Susan, and 
 the school, and old Nanny Marshall, and the almshouse women.' 
 
 * I have no cause to doubt you, my love/ replied Mrs Went- 
 worth, affectionately ; ' but it is scarcely strange that I should 
 have some misgivings about every society of which Lord Ruther- 
 ford is the head.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth spoke quickly, and Eleanor looked up in sur- 
 prise. But her mother's face betrayed no particular feeling ; it 
 was even more placid than before, as she added, ' You can 
 scarcely have failed to discover that he is not the most fitting 
 person for the guardianship of a young, enthusiastic, interesting 
 girl like Lady Blanche.' 
 
 ' He would spoil her, if she could be spoilt/ said Eleanor, 
 carelessly. 
 
 ' Yes ; he would spoil her/ repeated Mrs Wentworth. * He 
 would infuse into her mind low worldly notions ; and make her 
 think much of fashion and ultra-refinement, and the admiration 
 of his own peculiar circle ; and if she pleases him he will idolise 
 her, and if not ' 
 
 ' He can never cease to love her/ said Eleanor. 
 
 Mrs Wentworth was silent. The sudden burst of feeling was 
 over, and she had relapsed into her former indifference. 
 
 ' Blanche is very like her mother's picture/ observed Eleanor. 
 
 ' Yes, very/ replied Mrs Wentworth ; ' but it is not of her that 
 I am thinking now, Eleanor. No one can see her indeed with'
 
 THE EA1WS DAUGHTER. 51 
 
 out feeling most deeply for her ; but it is you who are my 
 charge, my delight.' 
 
 Eleanor smiled, and as she drew near her mother's chair, and 
 bent over it to kiss her, she said, ' And I shall be so always.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth shook her head. ' All ! Eleanor, that is your 
 stumbling-block; confidence in yourself.' 
 
 ' But I have begun well ; have I not, mamma ? Just re- 
 member how steady and regular I have been ever since I came 
 home ; and how much you say yourself that Susan is improved. 
 And the old almshouse women, you should have heard yesterday 
 all the civil things they said ! You must not distrust me more 
 than any one else. Please, don't look so grave, and conjure up 
 such a castle spectre.' 
 
 ' Ah ! if it were only a spectre ! But, Eleanor, I can look 
 back many years. I know what the tone of society used to be 
 at Rutherford, and I see no possible reason for supposing that 
 it will be different now.' 
 
 ' You were not injured by it, mamma,' said Eleanor ; ' and 
 why should I be ? ' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth sighed. ' I had many safeguards,' she said ; 
 ' yet I will not say that I was not injured. There was only one 
 over whom evil seemed to have no power.' 
 
 ' The countess,' said Eleanor, inquiringly. 
 
 ' Yes ; she was indeed too heavenly-minded to be approached 
 
 by any ordinary influence; and ' but Mrs Wentworth stopped, 
 
 as if unwilling to continue the subject. 
 
 ' Mamma,' said Eleanor, ' Lord Rutherford is very fond of 
 Blanche ; was he very fond of his wife ? ' 
 
 The consciousness that luncheon was ready appeared suddenly 
 to have crossed Mrs Wentworth's mind, for she did not give a 
 direct reply ; but merely saying that Susan would be tired of 
 waiting for her dinner, she went away; and Eleanor was left to 
 answer for herself as best she might the question which had 
 lately become one of considerable interest. Before, however, 
 she had satisfied herself, her meditations were broken in upon 
 by the entrance of her father and Lady Blanche. 
 
 ' Reposing from the fatigues of instruction, I suspect, Eleanor,' 
 exclaimed Blanche, gaily. ' Has Susan been a very naughty 
 child ? ' 
 
 ' Reposing from the weariness of disappointment rather,' 
 replied Eleanor. ' You were to have been here an hour ago.' 
 
 ' So I was ; but it is papa's fault. He would come and sit
 
 52 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 with me ; and he read to me part of the time, and then we talked, 
 and at last the post came in, and I had to write in a great hurry 
 to my aunt, who is to be here the day after to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Is Lady Charlton coming so soon?' inquired Dr 
 Wentworth. 
 
 ' Yes, so she says, if Sir Hugh feels himself equal to the 
 journey ; but she writes as if he was very much out of health. 
 But do you know my aunt ? ' 
 
 ' I can't tell,' said Dr Wentworth, rather bluntly. 
 
 Blanche and Eleanor laughed, and begged for an explana- 
 tion. 
 
 'Why, it is rather the case of the Irishman and his tin- 
 kettle, which he declared could not be lost, because he knew 
 vhere it was, — at the bottom of the sea. My knowledge of 
 Lady Charlton is about as valuable. Know her I do ; inas- 
 much as I have spoken to her often, and even dined in company 
 with her some sixteen or eighteen years ago ; but time is very 
 like the sea — you can see through it, but you cannot grasp what 
 you are looking at. After all, it may only be Lady Charlton's 
 shadow, which I think I know.' 
 
 ' I know exactly what she is like in appearance,' said Blanche; 
 ' tall and thin, dark hair and eyes, very elegant and ' 
 
 ' Fascinating,' added Dr Wentworth. 
 
 ' Yes, fascinating ; that is precisely the word papa used.' 
 
 ' And your cousins, I suppose, are fascinating too ? ' said 
 Eleanor, in a constrained voice. 
 
 ' No one knows anything about them, except that poor Maude 
 is an invalid, and that they have been educated abroad.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I remember,' exclaimed Eleanor ; ' Charles knew them, 
 I am sure ; he said he had made acquaintance with some rela- 
 tions of yours at Florence. It was at a ball, I think, they 
 met ; and then they were at a great many gay parties to- 
 gether.' 
 
 ' A great many too many,' muttered Dr Wentworth, in an 
 undertone. 
 
 ' That was a twelvemonth ago, papa,' said Eleanor. 'It is 
 not quite fair upon Charles, is it, Blanche, to quarrel with him 
 for last year's follies ? ' 
 
 ' I quarrel with no one, Eleanor,' replied Dr Wentworth, very 
 gravely ; ' but we will not keep Lady Blanche waiting ; ' and he 
 led the way to the dining-room. Blanche followed, with the 
 feeling that her original distaste to Mr Wentworth had received
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 53 
 
 some increase ; yet she blamed herself for it, and in order to 
 conquer her prejudice, paid particular attention when other allu- 
 sions were made to him in the course of her visit, in the hope of 
 receiving more satisfactory answers. But to her surprise, she 
 found that Dr Wentworth, who, even in his most courteous 
 moods, was short and straightforward in manner, was, when thn 
 subject was approached, so abrupt as instantly to stop 
 the conversation. It was clear that his son was not at that 
 moment perfectly in his favour. 
 
 This afternoon was to be devoted to the village, for Lord 
 Rutherford was obliged to be absent the greater part of the day, 
 and Blanche generally arranged her duties in such a way as to 
 give him always the first place in her attention. Under Dr 
 Wentworth's guidance, she had taken into her special charge a 
 certain number of the poor, principally the aged and infirm, to 
 whom her presence was almost as an angel's visit ; so new and 
 strange did it seem that one so young and so far removed from 
 themselves, should take a personal interest in their comfort. A 
 few there were, indeed, who remembered the time when the 
 countess had occupied herself in a similar manner, and who re- 
 garded Lady Blanche with a degree of compassionate affection, 
 which mingled with their respect as they noticed the resemblance 
 to her mother. From them it was that Blanche heard many little 
 traits of the countess's character, which she could have learnt 
 fivim no other source ; and they were treasured in her memory, 
 and fondly dwelt upon as the touches which were to mark more 
 vividly the outline of her mother's image. Yet, when all had 
 been repeated, and she believed that she had gained a clear know- 
 ledge of what the countess must have been, there still remained an 
 undefined doubt of something untold. Reverence and love were 
 ever associated with her name by all who spoke of her ; but pity 
 was added also ; and why, Blanche could not understand. For it 
 was not the pity which is bestowed so lavishly and unthinkingly, 
 by the living who are toiling through this weary world upon the 
 dead who have entered upon their rest, but rather that which 
 must ever be felt for those whom neither high station nor wealth, 
 nor even goodness, have shielded from severe trial. Blanche was 
 sure that her mother ought to have been happy, but she could not 
 believe that she had been so. As she listened to the cottagers 
 oft-told tales, she fancied that it was only a natural interest which 
 made her listen so intently for all they could tell; but, if she had 
 been as careful an anatomist of her feelings as she was of her
 
 54 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 faults, she might have perceived that this longing desire to know 
 more of the history of the countess's daily life was almost always 
 aroused after conversations with her father, which were now very 
 frequent. 
 
 It is the gift of a superior mind to bring out the latent powers 
 of others ; and Lord Rutherford's constant intercourse with his 
 daughter had done more than the most unwearied study towards 
 maturing her judgment, and enlarging her ideas upon all worldly 
 subjects. Blanche had lived in reality months instead of weeks 
 at the castle, and every day brought some fresh evidence to the 
 carl's mind of her quick intellect and refined taste. He delighted 
 in engaging her in an argument, and seeing the ease with which 
 she would pursue her own train of thought, whilst fully compre- 
 hending his, and the graceful candour with which, when once 
 convinced of error, she yielded her point and begged for further 
 instruction. He was more and more satisfied, more and more 
 convinced that Mrs Howard had educated her well. And 
 Blanche ? Alas ! how little can we read of the secrets of the 
 heart ! How selfish and blind are we, even in our love ! 
 
 If Lord Rutherford had been asked whether he had succeeded 
 in rendering his daughter happy, he would have answered, with- 
 out a moment's hesitation, perfectly. She had employments, 
 amusements, interests, luxuries, friends ; and, to crown the 
 whole, himself : and though free from the petty conceit of an 
 inferior intellect, which believes that it is all which it desires to 
 be, Lord Rutherford could not but be conscious that the powers 
 of entertainment which had excited the admiration of the first 
 circles, both in England and on the Continent, must be more 
 than equal to the task of whiling away the leisure hours of a 
 young girl, whose knowledge of the world was confined to the 
 immediate neighbourhood of the place of her education. And 
 he thought correctly. Blanche was amused, excited, interested 
 still — but the arrow had entered into her heart ; and when she 
 left her father's presence, her smiles too often vanished whilst 
 she sought the solitude of her own chamber to grieve over the 
 bitterness of her disappointment. 
 
 It was then that she most thought of her mother. Had it 
 been the same with her? Had she also loved, and reverenced, 
 and dreamt a dream of perfection, and awoke to find it but de- 
 lusion ? Or had she, like the earl, been gifted with the highest 
 of earthly gifts, while destitute of that ' pearl of great price,' 
 which alone could be her ornament in Heaven ? This, Blanche
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 55 
 
 could not think. All that she heard and saw — the letters, the 
 favourite books, the kind acts which were so thankfully remem- 
 bered — showed plainly that the Countess of Rutherford had 
 been in her inmost heart a Christian ; and then, how great must 
 have been the pang at finding herself united to one whose heart 
 was centred in the world ! Blanche thought upon the subject 
 till it haunted her as a spectral form, mixing with her imagina- 
 tions by day and night ; and, if forgotten for a time, recalled by 
 some accidental occurrence as painfully as if it had never passed 
 away. Yet the fear could not be named — certainly not to 
 Eleanor, and scarcely even to Mrs Howard, who had been 
 much separated from the countess both before and after her 
 marriage, and had never hinted a doubt of her happiness. The 
 mention of it would have involved an acknowledgment of dis- 
 appointment in her father, which Blanche shrank from allowing 
 to herself, and could not have borne to embody in words ; 
 though she often reproached herself for a want of sincerity in 
 withholding the confidence which she knew was expected. 
 There was one person, indeed, from whom much might be 
 learnt ; but how was the inquiry to be made ? Mrs Wentworth, 
 she had reason to believe, knew all the circumstances of her 
 mother's history ; but Blanche had already asked all the ques- 
 tions which she dared, and had learnt the principal events, 
 and many additional traits of habit and character ; and Mrs 
 Wentworth was not a person from whom to seek further confi- 
 dence. There was a great deal of sincerity, but no openness in 
 her disposition : she seldom encouraged conversation; and when 
 she did, it was confined to facts — serious and important, and 
 often placed in a new and striking light — but still merely facts. 
 Her own feelings she left to be discovered by inference ; and 
 Blanche, accustomed to Mrs Howard's warmth of expression, 
 felt chilled even by her kindness, and would frequently have 
 preferred silence to a succession of details, which might have 
 aroused the intensest interest but for the cold way in which they 
 were narrated. There was one hope, however, still to rest 
 upon ; Lady Charlton was described by every one to be a most 
 charming person, something like the countess in appearance, 
 and with a manner so winning that no one could withstand it. 
 Even Mrs Wentworth had once been roused into a momentary 
 enthusiasm when speaking of her qualifications as an agreeable 
 companion, and Blanche already clung to the idea that in her 
 aunt she might find a friend who would throw light upon the
 
 $6 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 subject which distressed her mind, without requiring her to 
 state the fears which she would willingly have hidden from her 
 own heart. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 LORD RUTHERFORD perceived with great satisfaction 
 the pleasure with which Blanche looked forward to her 
 aunt's visit. He had resolved that his sister-in-law should be 
 surprised and charmed by his daughter's elegance and beauty ; 
 and he well knew the effect which Blanche's simple, eager cor- 
 diality would have upon one who had so long been accustomed 
 to the sparkling frigidity of the fashionable world. Blanche 
 was always courteous, always attentive ; but, when her feelings 
 were interested, she was attractive far beyond any person whom 
 he had ever seen. He remained at home the whole of the day 
 on which Lady Charlton was expected, under the pretence — 
 perhaps even the belief — that it would be a great mark of 
 neglect if he were to run the least risk of not being ready to 
 receive his guests. Sir Hugh was so unwell, and they had not 
 met since they parted last year in Italy ; and Blanche would 
 feel awkward in probably having to receive her cousins alone. 
 True, they could not possibly arrive before five o'clock, and he 
 had an engagement at two, in a neighbouring village ; but there 
 might be some mistake, they might come before, — at any rate 
 it wa-3 safe, and he would send an excuse ; and then the earl's 
 eye wandered to Blanche, who was seated at her drawing-frame, 
 and he begged her to give him one air upon the harp — his 
 favourite. Blanche's face lit up with a smile of pleasure, and 
 the earl felt the time only too short, as he leant back upon the 
 sofa, his eye delighting in his child's grace, and his ear drinking 
 in the sweet sounds which her talent was producing. It was 
 perfect human enjoyment ; for at that moment no memories 
 awoke to mar it. 
 
 ' We will walk down the carriage drive, if you like it, my 
 love,' he said, as the timepiece struck the quarter before five ; 
 ' these spare minutes are always very tedious.' 
 
 Blanche disappeared as soon as the suggestion was made ; 
 her father's marked attention to her wishes had made her 
 jcrupulously mindful of his. Lord Rutherford's careful inspec-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 57 
 
 tion when she returned was not perceived ; but it was bestowed 
 with the wish to decide whether she would be less likely to ap- 
 pear to advantage in her walking than in her morning dress. 
 Lady Charlton's eye was fastidiously correct in dress, and it was 
 possible that she might be struck by some deficiency of which 
 Blanche was unconscious. But the straw-bonnet and shawl 
 disarmed criticism, and Lord Rutherford smiled at his own 
 doubts. The afternoon was very still, but the atmosphere was 
 Hear, and the sky blue and cloudless. Blanche felt the soften- 
 ing, soothing influence of nature's purity and beauty ; and the 
 over-interest, and even agitation, which she had experienced in 
 the expectation of the meeting were calmed. But she was silent, 
 and so was the earl. 
 
 ' We shall see them from this point,' he said at length, as he 
 led his daughter to a bench upon the summit of a steep knoll. 
 ' It was an old boyish habit of mine, to stand here and watch 
 for arrivals.' 
 
 Blanche looked towards the winding road which passed over 
 the village green. ' There is something, — a carriage ; — yes, a 
 carriage, I am sure. Don't you see it, papa ? ' 
 
 ' Eyes of sixteen against eyes of fifty, Blanche,' said the earl, 
 smiling. ' Are you certain that you don't hear the rumbling of 
 the wheels ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! papa, you won't believe ; but I do see it, though. It 
 is coming nearer; it has just passed the first turning, and it is 
 very quick too. There must be four horses ; so it must be 
 them.' 
 
 ' Well, then, we will return ; but look once more : are you 
 sure? ' 
 
 ' Yes, quite : it is by the blacksmith's shop. I can see the 
 horses now distinctly.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford quickened his pace towards the house. He 
 looked thoughtful and uneasy. 
 
 They stood upon the steps together. The earl leant moodily 
 against the castle wall ; he saw no external objects. His eye 
 was turned inwards to his own heart, and the images of the 
 years that were passed away. He started, however, as the 
 sound of wheels became more distinct ; and, when the leaders 
 appeared on the crest of the hill, he drew Blanche forward to 
 meet the carriage. Blanche thought that it was the impulse of 
 hospitality and affection ; but it was merely restlessness : he 
 felt himself compelled to move.
 
 58 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Lady Charlton was the first to perceive them, and the carriage 
 was instantly stopped. 
 
 ' Kind ! — like yourself, always,' was her salutation, as she 
 extended her hand, which the earl took with something of 
 trembling cordiality. ' And my dear Blanche, too ! but I must 
 walk.' 
 
 The carriage-door was opened, and Lady Charlton alighted. 
 
 ' We are not in public/ she said, as she kissed Blanche's 
 forehead, and again gave her hand to the earl. 
 
 Blanche's smile was very sweet, and her few words — few from 
 repressed feeling — were all that her aunt could desire. 
 
 ' You don't want introductions,' continued Lady Charlton. 
 ' Maude, Adelaide ; you know your cousin, of course.' 
 
 There was another warm greeting, and Blanche was recover- 
 ing her momentary shyness and agitation. She remained at the 
 carriage-door, bending forwards and speaking eagerly, whilst her 
 eye sparkled with pleasure, and a bright colour flushed her 
 usually pale cheek. Lady Charlton watched her for a few 
 moments, and the seemingly involuntary exclamation escaped 
 her, — ' Yes, she is just what I could have imagined ; I must 
 have known her in any place.' 
 
 The earl turned away. 
 
 ' Don't distress yourself, my dear,' continued Lady Charlton, 
 as Blanche was about to address some person, or apparently 
 thing, which bore a resemblance rather to a bundle of shawls 
 than a human being. ' Poor Sir Hugh ! he is miserably tired — 
 half-dead with opiates ; — he has been suffering fearfully the last 
 week, but he would come : he will be himself by and by : they 
 had better drive on ; ' and the carriage proceeded. 
 
 Blanche walked leisurely to the castle with her father and 
 aunt. She was confused ; there had scarcely been time to re- 
 cognise any one, but the general impression was agreeable. 
 Lady Charlton was undoubtedly an elegant, distinguished-looking 
 person ; her voice too was musical, and her manner very winning 
 from its ease and kindness. And her cousins — she thought she 
 knew them apart : one had a sallow complexion and light hair, 
 a plain but very clever face, rather severe and grave in its ex- 
 pression — that must be Maude, the invalid : and the other was 
 a brunette, with dark hair braided ; dressed handsomely and 
 carefully, lively in manner, and altogether pleasing from youth 
 and gaiety, and the quickness of a pair of very bright eyes, 
 rather than from any regular beauty. The earl said little ; but
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 59 
 
 Lady Charlton had words upon every subject at command. No 
 one could be in the least restrained with her. Even in those 
 few minutes, she seemed to take exactly that position which 
 Blanche had felt must be filled before she could be quite at case 
 with her father. Lady Charlton was affectionate and interested, 
 but she was not timid. Blanche could scarcely understand the 
 boldness with which she rallied the earl upon his long absence, 
 his present love of seclusion, and prophesied that he was yet 
 to prove himself as distinguished a person in England as he had 
 been abroad. Lord Rutherford was at first grave, but not an- 
 noyed ; and, after a few minutes, he appeared to have caught 
 himself something of Lady Charlton's vivacity, and answered 
 her remarks in a tone almost as full of cheerfulness as her own. 
 It was a new phase of character which Blanche had not before 
 perceived. 
 
 < And Sir Hugh has been very ill, then,' said Lord Rutherford, 
 as he saw the carriage stop at the castle, and two servants assist 
 in helping a seemingly decrepit old man to alight. 
 
 « Yes/ and Lady Charlton sighed ; ' it is very sad : one can 
 never be prepared for these attacks. He was at a great dinner 
 only a fortnight ago, and quite the life of the party ; made a 
 speech, and proposed toasts, and kept up the whole thing till 
 after twelve o'clock ; was quite himself, in fact : and now, you 
 see what he is.' 
 
 < I suppose the dinner was the root of the evil,' observed the 
 earl. 
 
 ' Well ! yes ; I suppose it might have been so : but the com- 
 plaint is constitutional, hereditary. Blanche, my dear, you may 
 think yourself happy in being descended from another family. 
 The Evelyns never were a gouty race.' 
 
 < I should hope not,' said the earl, quietly. 
 
 Lady Charlton laughed. ' Now, my dear Rutherford, that is 
 one of your old exclusive fancies. I really flattered myself that 
 fifteen years' experience of continental liberalism would have 
 done something towards destroying them ; but you are just the 
 same, I see ; just the same spirit of the Spanish hidalgo in you 
 — " This comes of walking on the earth." ' 
 
 ' And the Spanish hidalgo was right,' said Blanche, archly. 
 
 Lady Charlton smiled, and answered, ' Quite right, my dear ; 
 but I don't know how it is — the older one grows, the less inclined 
 one is to hang, like Mahomet's coffin, between heaven and earth : 
 there is something very solitary and uncongenial in the position 5
 
 60 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 and therefore, since one cannot yet have the higher, I am will- 
 ing to rest satisfied with the lower, and to be very happy upon 
 earth, in spite of the Spanish hidalgo.' 
 
 ' And the gout/ said Lord Rutherford. ' Sir Hugh, I suspect, 
 would tell a different tale.' 
 
 ' Oh ! poor Sir Hugh ! you will see him very unlike himself, 
 Blanche ; or rather you will not see him at all. He and Pear- 
 son go their own way when he is in this state. A first-rate 
 servant Pearson is ; and such a nurse ! ' 
 
 By this time they had reached the castle. As they entered it, 
 Blanche again repeated her welcome to her aunt, and Lady 
 Charlton's manner in an instant changed. She was no longer 
 the cheerful amusing woman of the world ; but the thoughtful, 
 warm-hearted, sympathising friend. She took Blanche's hand 
 in both hers, and thanked her with a warmth of affection 
 which Blanche fully appreciated. Dr Wentworth's description 
 recurred to her mind. Fascinating ! — Yes, that was the right 
 word. 
 
 Blanche was alone till nearly dinner time. Her cousins were 
 engaged in dressing for dinner, or perhaps in resting after their 
 journey. She did not see anything of them after showing them 
 to their rooms. He/ aunt, she supposed, was with Sir Hugh ; 
 her father, she knew, had business to transact. The solitude 
 was very precious to her ; it gave her leisure for thought, for 
 examining her own impressions. Blanche trusted very much 
 to first impressions, for as yet she had never known deception. 
 All seemed bright and hopeful — not from any particular cause 
 that she could fix upon — the sensation of relief and satisfaction 
 was indefinable ; the castle was the castle still — her own posi- 
 tion was the same — her one great grief was as real as it had 
 ever been, but her heart was lighter. 
 
 The earl was waiting for her as she left her room. He had 
 come on purpose to take her himself to the drawing-room, that 
 she might not be shy ; so he said : but his survey of Blanche's 
 dress and general appearance betrayed his true motive. A 
 smile of intense pleasure passed over his face as he looked at 
 her : the simple white dress was the symVol of the pure, spot- 
 less mind.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 61 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 ' "Fj* LEAN OR,' said Air Wentworth to his sister, as he entered 
 -L-' the school-room the day after the arrival of Lady Charl- 
 ton at the castle, ' you must leave those never-ending lessons, 
 and come out ; I want you.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Charles ; you must wait : if you have 
 returned to stay here for several months, you must learn to 
 amuse yourself.' 
 
 ' More easily said than done,' was the reply ; and the young 
 man threw himself into the first arm-chair which presented 
 itself, and continued : ' Four months ! it is a terribly long 
 time. What on earth shall I do with myself?' 
 
 ' Read,' replied Eleanor, still occupying herself with an 
 exercise, which she was correcting. 
 
 ' Read ! my dear Eleanor,' replied her brother, with a sigh 
 of languid weariness. ' But I have read ; I do read. It is 
 nothing else but reading from morning till night.' 
 
 'But it will only last a little longer,' said Eleanor, soothingly; 
 ' and then ' 
 
 ' And then comes ordination,' added Charles. 
 
 There was an accent of bitterness in his voice. Eleanor 
 looked up, and put her finger to her lips, as she glanced at her 
 little sister. 
 
 ' Susan, child, run into the garden, and find Brown,' exclaimed 
 Charles, impatiently. ' Tell him he must have my horse ready 
 for me by three o'clock.' 
 
 Susan ran away, only too glad of the excuse to change her 
 employment. 
 
 ' You forget Susan's age,' said Eleanor, in a reproachful tone, 
 when she found herself alone with her brother. 
 
 ' Yes, I did at the moment ; but there would have been no 
 harm done.' 
 
 ' Only that she is very likely to repeat to papa all that you 
 say to me ; and you would not like that.' 
 
 ' I don't know ; he must hear it some day or other.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, Charles ! you intend to change your views, and look 
 at the matter differently.' 
 
 • My dear Eleanor,' was the answer, spoken coolly and rather 
 satirically, ' it is exceedingly easy for you to talk ; but, begging 
 your pardon, you know nothing whatever of the subject. Or-
 
 62 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 dained I must be — I intend to be ; but not to be my father's 
 curate ; not to vegetate upon a hundred a year in a country 
 village, with no one but my own family to speak to. I was not 
 born for such a life, and I can never endure it.' 
 
 ' Would you not be just as badly off in any other place ? ' 
 inquired Eleanor. ' You will have the castle, and the society 
 there, for a change.' 
 
 ' Lord Rutherford and Lady Blanche ? ' said Charles, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 ' Yes, and I think you will scarcely require more. You will 
 go far before you meet any one the equal of Blanche, at least.' 
 
 ' Equal ! no ; to watch her is like looking up at a star ; but 
 confess, Eleanor, notwithstanding all your romance, it is awfully 
 out of one's reach.' 
 
 'Yet Blanche is the most warm-hearted, enthusiastic, poetical 
 person imaginable,' exclaimed Eleanor. 
 
 8 Veiy likely ; you young ladies are extremely warm-hearted 
 to each other, and no doubt very poetical in your private 
 journals ; but that does not help us poor men. Lady Blanche 
 makes a most lovely picture ; but pictures are not society;' 
 
 ' Then you will have others besides Blanche,' continued 
 Eleanor. ' Lady Charlton, and' — — 
 
 ' The Charltons ? Are they here ? When did they come ? 
 You never told me anything about them.' 
 
 Mr Wentworth grew evidently excited at the information. 
 
 Eleanor could not forbear laughing. ' Why, my dear Charles 
 
 I was not quite prepared for such a burst. They are here 
 
 Lady Charlton, and Sir Hugh.' 
 
 ' And Adelaide ? ' interrupted Charles. 
 
 ' Christian names ! ' exclaimed Eleanor. < Really, Charles, 
 that is rather surprising. Do papa and mamma know of this 
 great intimacy ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Eleanor, you are a mere baby. Christian names 
 are nothing at all ; it entirely depends upon the people. I 
 should never think of calling Lady Blanche Evelyn, Blanche.' 
 
 ' No. because she is Lady Blanche.' 
 
 ' But if she were Miss, I could not. Don't you understand ? 
 Some persons are to be regarded at a distance. They never 
 give one the opportunity of approaching nearer ; they are never 
 off their guard.' 
 
 ' Which I presume, then, that the Miss Charltons are/ ob- 
 served Eleanor, in a tone of amusement.
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER, 6j 
 
 ' They arc very quick — very agreeable. I should nut exactly 
 choose to see you like them ; but they will be great acquisitions. 
 When I say them, however, I really only mean Adelaide. The 
 other is clever enough — a very phoenix in learning and accom 
 piishments ; but she is anything but agreeable, if you happen 
 to take her in the wrong mood.' 
 
 ' She is an invalid, I believe,' said Eleanor. 
 
 1 Yes, she thinks herself so, and she looks hideously ugly ; 
 people say, from ill health. It was the fashion abroad to 
 admire her forehead and eyes, and call them intellectual ; but 
 I never could get over the complexion.' 
 
 ' I don't see that she is likely to be much of an acquisition,' 
 continued Eleanor. 
 
 ' Yes ; in her way, she will be : she plays marvellously, and 
 sings ! I never heard any amateur voice in the least equal to 
 hers. Upon the whole, I am immensely glad they are here.' 
 
 ' I must ask you to go, now,' said Eleanor, gravely, ' Susan 
 must come to her lessons ; don't you hear her in the passage ? ' 
 
 ' Run away, child, we are not ready for you yet,' exclaimed 
 Charles, rising from his chair with some effort ; and going to 
 the door, in spite of his sister's evident annoyance, he sent 
 Susan on another message, and then returning said, ' These 
 four months ! — they will be a great trial.' 
 
 ' I should not find them so, if I were in your place,' observed 
 Eleanor, whilst the colour mounted to her cheeks. ' I should 
 be glad to be with you anywhere, especially at home.' 
 
 Charles seemed a little surprised at her manner. ' I don't 
 understand,' he replied. ' Of course, I am glad to be with you ; 
 but just think for a minute ; ' and his voice became quite ener- 
 getic ; ' I have passed through the university, and made rather 
 a noise there ; since then I have been travelling for two years, 
 seeing most enchanting places, enjoying first-rate society — and 
 now I am told that I am to sit down for life — it is the life which 
 frightens me ! — in an old country parsonage, with not a single 
 person to speak to beyond my own family, and the chance visitors 
 at Rutherford Castle. Doubtless, there are persons for whom 
 such prospects might do very well ; good, quiet, humdrum men, 
 who, exactly the reverse of Charles the Second, may be war- 
 ranted never to do a foolish thing, and never say a wise one ; — 
 but I am not one of them. If my father wishes me to do any- 
 thing he must give me a sphere : he ought to do so ; for I 
 have never caused him any trouble. I have never been wild,
 
 64 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 or extravagant ; and yet he looks as grave as if I was a com- 
 plete scapegrace.' 
 
 ' The notion of your ordination makes him do that,' said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 ' And whose fault is the ordination ? ' exclaimed Mr Went- 
 worth. ' He has dinned into my ears, ever since I was a baby 
 in arms, that I was to be a clergyman, and what possible righi 
 has he to find fault with me now because I intend to be one ? ' 
 
 ' Papa looks at the profession more seriously than you do,' 
 observed Eleanor. 
 
 ' Serious ; it is serious enough, no one doubts that ; but all 
 the more reason why I should have a little life and enjoyment 
 beforehand.' 
 
 ' Papa thinks that is not the right sort of preparation,' said 
 Eleanor, in a tone of mild suggestion, rather than of reproof. 
 
 ' I don't mean it as preparation — and yet call it so, if you 
 will. When I am ordained, things will be different. I shall 
 be a clergyman ; and I shall conduct myself like one. My 
 father cannot suppose I mean to disgrace myself by being a 
 vulgar, fox-hunting, drinking, negligent, country parson.' 
 
 ' The race is happily becoming extinct,' said Eleanor ; ' but 
 my father will not be satisfied with your merely escaping dis- 
 grace.' 
 
 ' He wishes to see me honoured ; and he shall do so. Once 
 let me have the opportunity ; place me in London ; give me, 
 as I said before, a sphere ; and, before he dies, he shall see me 
 a bishop.' 
 
 Eleanor shook her head, and said more courageously, ' That 
 is not the tone to please papa, Charles. He does not under- 
 stand it. He does not know what it is to wish to be a 
 bishop.' 
 
 ' Neither do I wish it, Eleanor ; if I could be anything else. 
 But I am all but shut out from every other profession. I am 
 not educated, and not inclined for the army ; I am not at ail 
 fitted for a physician ; and utterly without interest at the bar — 
 if I could bring myself to submit to the drudgery of studying 
 for it. I know I must take orders ; and all I ask is, that my 
 father should try to place me where my talents — for you know, 
 Eleanor, it is impossible to deny that I have some talents,' and 
 Mr Wentworth laughed faintly, and settling his cravat, glanceo 1 
 at himself in the looking-glass — ' should have scope.' 
 
 Eleanor's reply showed an evident wish to put an end to a
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 65 
 
 disagreeable subject. She was quite sure, she said, that her 
 father would do everything in his power to promote her brother's 
 views, by and by ; but that she could not herself sec what steps 
 were to be taken at once. 
 
 ' One, very simple/ exclaimed Charles, eagerly. ' Let him 
 consent that I should have a curacy in London ; or, at least, 
 that I should try for one ; instead of insisting upon my drudg- 
 ing on a weary existence here, with nothing to rouse energy.' 
 
 ' You had better resign yourself, my dear Charles/ and 
 Eleanor tried to laugh. ' When papa once has made a decision 
 he is very resolute.'' 
 
 ' And he will find that his son can be resolute too/ exclaimed 
 Mr Wentworth. ' I have made up my mind what I will do, I 
 will be off — off to Australia ; no power on earth shall stop me, 
 if I am thwarted.' 
 
 1 You, in Australia ! a settler ! ' and Eleanor laughed ; ' no, 
 papa feels he is perfectly safe there. But, my dear Charles, 
 there is a much surer way of bringing him round to look at 
 things in your own way. Stay here quietly, and do as he 
 wishes ; study, and visit the poor people, and then he will be 
 satisfied ; and will see himself, by degrees, that you are not 
 likely to gain any harm by ultimately settling in London. 
 You must own/ she added, with some hesitation, 'that papa's 
 anxiety is natural enough, considering the way you talk.' 
 
 ' But I don't talk so to him,' exclaimed Mr Wentworth. 
 ' Neither he nor my mother know half I really feel.' 
 
 ' Poor mamma ! ' said Eleanor, speaking seriously, yet not 
 without some satisfaction at her brother's implied confidence in 
 herself; ' with her high views, her very exalted notions of a 
 clergyman's office, I certainly should not like her to hear you 
 rattle on in this random way. I don't approve of it, you know, 
 myself; only I am sure you don't mean it.' 
 
 ' I do mean it, though/ exclaimed Charles, petulantly; 'and 
 what is more, I am convinced that there are not half a dozen 
 men in England who would not say precisely the same. Of 
 course, I shall do my duty ; but it must be in the right place — 
 not here.' 
 
 ' Not even with Lady Charlton and her family, at the castle ! ' 
 said Eleanor, pointedly. 
 
 ' Oh ! nonsense, they would make a difference ; but it would 
 only be for a time ; they can't stay.' 
 
 ' Blanche expects them for a very long visit/ replied Eleanor, 
 
 E
 
 66 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Lord Rutherford and Adelaide Charlton ! ' said Charles, 
 musingly. ' A very incongruous mixture. Adelaide's high 
 spirits will never stand the castle proprieties.' 
 
 < Charles, dear ; promise me one thing, please,' said Eleanor, 
 laying her hand upon his arm. ' Don't speak of Miss Charlton in 
 that way before mamma ; it is just the sort of thing to annoy her.' 
 
 Mr Wentworth laughed. ' My dear Eleanor, you really are 
 more childish than I imagined ; but anything you like : only, 
 when you know Adelaide, you will see that it is impossible to 
 call her anything else. And, remember, if I am to stay here 
 and be well behaved, I must have full leave to go to the castle 
 as often as I choose.' 
 
 ' Leave from me as much as you wish,' replied Eleanor ; ' if 
 you will only be cautious. I could not bear you to vex mamma, 
 and she is rather suspicious of you already.' 
 
 Mr Wentworth put on an air of mock gravity ; and folding 
 his hands, and casting his eyes to the ground, promised to be 
 as demure as Susan, if only his sister would help to provide him 
 with amusement. ' And suggest to my father that I shall not 
 be fitted for Tiis curate,' were his last words, as he went out of 
 the room, leaving Eleanor in a state of mind by no means to be 
 envied. 
 
 He was scarcely gone, when Mrs Wentworth came through 
 the garden to the school-room window. She held a note in 
 her hand, which she put into Eleanor's silently, and then stood 
 by apparently engaged in twisting the straggling tendrils of the 
 clematis which darkened the apartment. Eleanor returned the 
 note with thanks ; her colour was heightened, and her eyes 
 sparkled with pleasure. ' Shall I write an answer, mamma; or 
 will you ? ' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth paused for a moment, before she said, in a 
 tone of annoyance, ' I was afraid it would be so. I was sure 
 you would be vexed, my love.' 
 
 ' Vexed ! dear mamma.' 
 
 ' Yes. It is nothing very grievous ; but your father and I 
 think it best to decline. He wished me not to show you the 
 invitation ; but I could not agree. I have too much confidence 
 in your good sense and your love for me.' 
 
 1 O, mamma ! the first day ! and an express invitation to us 
 ail ; and Blanche so extremely urgent ! ' 
 
 < The very reason, my love, why it may be more desirable to 
 decline.' Eleanor bit her lip, and made no reply.
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 67 
 
 * You will understand some of our objections/ continued Mrs 
 Wentworth. ' As an acquaintance begins, so it may be sup- 
 posed to continue. We do not wish to be dining at the castle 
 perpetually now.' 
 
 ' Because of Lady Charlton and her party, I suppose/ replied 
 Eleanor, trying to be good-humoured. ' But, dear mamma, she 
 is a very charming person.' 
 
 ' I don't know what she is,' was Mrs Wentworth's reply, 
 spoken more quickly than was her wont : 'only you will be con- 
 tented at home, my child.' 
 
 ' Contented with you, mamma? oh ! yes, always ; but' • 
 
 ' But you must try and think as I think ; try and not dream 
 of the castle by night and by day.' Eleanor smiled, though 
 without cheerfulness. ' Consider what it would be to me,' con- 
 tinued Mrs Wentworth, ' to see you restless and excited, or to 
 find you longing for different society, and know that you were 
 neglecting your own simple duties.' 
 
 ' I should never neglect my duties by being with Blanche,' 
 exclaimed Eleanor, eagerly ; ' she would always keep me right.' 
 
 ' My love, indeed you are mistaken. Lady Blanche is a 
 very sweet girl, most amiable and winning ; but, when you are 
 together, her spirit cannot be the ruling one.' 
 
 Eleanor's head was raised proudly, as she replied, ' It should 
 be, if I were Blanche. Rank, wealth, beauty, talent ! Mamma, 
 Blanche ought to rule a kingdom.' 
 
 ' Let her learn to rule the kingdom of her own heart/ replied 
 Mrs Wentworth ; ' that will be the most needful lesson. Poor 
 child ! hers is a position of great temptation.' 
 
 ' Mamma/ said Eleanor, thoughtfully, ' you might help her.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth paused. ' I might possibly, if circumstances 
 were different; if the opportunity should occur; but your affec- 
 tion, I think, a little deceives you, Eleanor. Lady Blanche is 
 not likely to give me the opportunity; she is too gentle and 
 yielding to profit by the sort of help I should give. She would 
 require something less severe. Mrs Howard is more likely to 
 be of use to her than I am.' 
 
 ' Mrs Howard is so far off/ replied Eleanor. 
 
 1 Yes ; but they can write. Though, of course, my love/ 
 continued Mrs Wentworth, assuming a tone of greater uncon- 
 straint, ' I do not mean that I would not do everything for her 
 that I possibly could ; only there are some dispositions so 
 easily moulded that they take impressions from everything ;
 
 63 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 and, if it should be so with Lady Blanche, you will find that 
 the daily life at the castle with her relations will really form her 
 character. And, besides,' and Mrs Wentworth's voice sank, as 
 it sometimes did, into a tone so low that it scarcely seemed in- 
 tended for conversation, ' there are different atmospheres, differ- 
 ent circles— the castle and the rectory — no, never again.' 
 
 Eleanor made no comment upon this speech ; yet the thought 
 crossed her mind, with wonder, why, if the circles were so dif- 
 ferent, and the atmospheres so uncongenial, she should have 
 been allowed to grow up from childhood in unrestrained inti- 
 macy with Blanche. 
 
 ' And you will be satisfied then, my dear, not to dine at the 
 castle to-day,' said Mrs Wentworth, in her natural manner; 
 ' we have an engagement which will do very well as an excuse 
 for us all. Your father talked, this morning, of asking Mr 
 Moulton, of Enfield, to stay, as he is going to ride with him to 
 see the workhouse ; and though we might leave them at home, 
 it will be better not.' 
 
 Eleanor sighed at the prospect of exchanging a cheerful 
 evening at the castle for the society of an elderly gentleman, 
 whose only interest in life seemed to be the faults of the poor- 
 laws. The sigh was not utterly selfish, it was as much for her 
 brother as herself; and she ventured to add a petition for him : 
 but Mrs Wentworth negatived the idea instantly. 
 
 ' Charles ! oh dear, no ! He was much too great a stranger 
 to go by himself; he would be quite a burden to Lord Ruther- 
 ford; and, moreover'— but this time Mrs Wentworth's thoughts 
 were not betrayed by an under-tone; and Eleanor could only 
 conjecture that the ' moreover' might have some reference to 
 Miss Charlton. She was not forbidden, however, to go to the 
 castle in the morning — that was some satisfaction ; and she 
 might see Blanche ; she might just have a glimpse of Adelaide 
 Charlton ; and, without hesitation, she expressed her intention 
 to her mother. 
 
 They had not met the preceding day, she said ; and Blanche 
 would think it unkind if she were not to go near her. 
 
 ' Lady Blanche will call upon you, my dear, if she is anxious 
 about it,' said Mrs Wentworth, quietly and coldly. 
 
 Eleanor changed colour. ' Anxious about it, dear mamma ; 
 what can you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing, my dear ; only I think you might as well leave 
 the castle for to -da v.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 69 
 
 A torrent of eager words seemed about to rush forth, for 
 Eleanor's eyes flashed with anger and vexation. Mrs Went- 
 worth stopped her before the first word was spoken. ' My 
 love, you have trusted me always ; do you doubt now that 1 
 would make you happy in your own way if it were right ? ' 
 
 The haughty spirit was subdued in an instant, and Eleanor's 
 arm was thrown round her mother's neck. 
 
 ' Mamma, you are always right ; yet you cannot love Blanche 
 as I do.' 
 
 ' I loved her mother,' was Mrs Wentworth's calm reply ; and, 
 as she walked slowly away, Eleanor threw herself upon a chair, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 » TJ ERE, Pearson ! stop a minute, can't you ? What in the 
 J- -L world are you going away for, idiot ? ' growled Sir 
 Hugh Charlton, helplessly stretching out his hand to reach a 
 small hand-bell, which had unfortunately been placed just be- 
 yond his reach. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir ; very sorry, quite forgot,' muttered 
 the stout, obsequious, black-haired, black-whiskered, and most 
 shrewd-looking individual, whose character was constantly 
 summed up by Lady Charlton in the emphatic description of 
 ' the best creature in the world.' 
 
 1 The medicine, the drops ! where are they ? why don't you 
 fetch them ?' continued Sir Hugh, as Pearson remained by his 
 side, pretending to adjust the pillows at his head, and eyeing 
 with great apparent solicitude the arrangements of the gouty stool, 
 which supported his master's feet. Pearson did not say that he 
 had been on the point of departure when he was brought back ; 
 he placed the hand-bell more conveniently than before, gave ar 
 additional touch to the pillows, brought the newspaper withiu 
 reach, and then, as he was leaving the room, remarked that the 
 earl had invited some friends to dinner, so he had been told by 
 Mr Hilyard, the butler. 
 
 ' People to dinner, did you say ? Here, Pearson, where are 
 you going ? why, in the name of wonder, don't you speak out ? ' 
 
 ' Dr Wentworth's family from the rectory are coming, so Mr
 
 'jo THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Hilyard informed me, Sir Hugh ; but, perhaps, you would wish 
 me to inquire. When you have taken the medicine, if -I might 
 be allowed, I would ask.' Pearson returned almost in an in- 
 stant. The drops were properly measured and administered, 
 and Sir Hugh's next order was, not to fidget about the room 
 like a mouse, but to go and hear who was coming ; an order 
 fully expected by the ingenious Pearson, who immediately de- 
 parted to gossip, for at least a quarter of an hour, in the house- 
 keeper's room. 
 
 He was gone, but Sir Hugh murmured still, ' Wentworths ! 
 who were the Wentworths ? People he had never heard of ! 
 Wentworth!' He stopped and rubbed his chin, and thought, 
 and muttered again, ' Wentworth ! yes, he did know the name, 
 he remembered it. That intolerable fool, Pearson, where was 
 he gone ? he knew every one. Heaps of Wentworths there were 
 everywhere — England — France — Italy.' He seized the hand- 
 bell, but, without ringing it, called for Pearson at the highest 
 pitch of his voice. 
 
 The call was answered by Lady Charlton. ' My dear Sir 
 Hugh, such a noise ! it quite frightens one.' 
 
 ' Well! madam, and I intended it should. Here am I — Pear- 
 son gone — you away — left by my daughters — it is too bad.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but my dear Sir Hugh, you must not be exacting. 
 Poor children ! they are only having a little music with 
 Blanche.' 
 
 ' No ; not with me,' said a very sweet voice ; and Blanche, 
 who had just entered the room, came up to Sir Hugh's chair. 
 ' You know, Aunt Charlton, you promised I should be of use. 
 Can I do anything for Sir Hugh ? Might I not sit a little while 
 with him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! my clear Blanche, this is too good of you,' and Sir 
 Hugh grew calm directly. ' Really you must excuse me — a 
 gouty man must make a great many apologies ; but that fool — 
 my man, I mean — a very good servant — a capital servant, 
 Pearson — but forgetful. Lady Charlton, pray place a chair, it 
 distresses me quite.' Blanche brought a chair for herself, and 
 placed it by Sir Hugh ; her work-basket was in her hand, and 
 again she hoped that she was not intruding. 
 
 Lady Charlton smiled, and said, ' Sir Hugh would be only 
 too happy ; and, for herself, she had letters to write, veiy im- 
 portant ones ; but Blanche must not fatigue herself. You can 
 read, if you like it, my love, for a little while. Sir Hugh is a
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 71 
 
 great reader, and a writer too sometimes, only I shall be in 
 disgrace if I mention it.' She looked meaningly at Sir Hugh. 
 
 ' My dear Lady Charlton— Frances — you are really too bad. 
 Blanche will be shocked ; it is nothing ; nothing at all, I assure 
 you. Just a pamphlet, nothing at all to speak of. There is 
 one — Frances, my dear — on the side table ; I think you will 
 find one. But, never mind ; ' seeing that Lady Charlton cast 
 an unsearching, and unseeing eye round the room. ' Never 
 mind, Pearson will find it. I can ring.' 
 
 ' Pearson is going to dinner,' replied Lady Charlton, rather 
 quicHy, 'but Blanche I daresay will read to you. Let me see, 
 that book on geology I think it was you began. My dear 
 Blanche, I really am ashamed of myself for allowing you to 
 have such a task. I daresay, if the truth were told, you know 
 no more of the " ologies " than I do ; but you will learn some- 
 thing — names, at least. I quite marvel at myself for not being 
 wiser, considering Sir Hugh's tastes. We had not veiy much 
 science in Italy ; and a great drawback it was for him. Good- 
 bye, my love. Maude and Ady will be in despair when they 
 hear you are not coming back.' 
 
 ' As much in despair as I shall be in delight,' said Sir Hugh, 
 twisting his sallow and worn features into what he believed to 
 be an irresistible smile. 
 
 ' But I shall have mercy upon you, Blanche,' said Lady Charl- 
 ton, returning to look into the room again. ' Remember we 
 are to have a riding party this afternoon ; and your friends, the 
 Wentworths, I hear, are to dine with us.' 
 
 Lady Charlton was gone before she heard, or at least, before 
 she appeared to hear Sir Hugh's impatient exclamation of 
 ' Wentworth ! that was the very thing ! that fool Pearson ! 
 why did he not come back ? Who are the Wentworths?' 
 
 ' Friends of ours at the rectory,' said Blanche ; and her voice 
 acted with a magical effect upon the irritable Sir Hugh, who 
 immediately composed himself to the semblance of a deferential 
 listener. ' Eleanor Wentworth and I were educated together,' 
 continued Blanche. ' She is my very great friend.' 
 
 1 Ah, yes, very true — very nice ; no doubt she is charm- 
 ing. But I thought — you must excuse a little impatience, 
 my dear — the gout is trying, especially trying — for a man 
 of active habits, in the prime of life. I spoke rather eagerly, 
 just now ; but I thought I remembered the name of Went- 
 worth abroad.'
 
 72 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 It might have been Dr Wentworth's son ; he has been 
 travelling/ said Blanche. 
 
 Sir Hugh put his finger to his lip, and presently, with a 
 sudden start of recollection, exclaimed — 
 
 ' Yes, I have it. I remember. Pearson knows ; — idiot ! ' 
 and the voice sank again into an angry growl, ' what a time he 
 is at dinner V 
 
 Before Blanche could answer, a furious peal summoned Pear- 
 son from his repast. Blanche could scarcely help smiling at 
 the insinuating tone of the servant, when compared with the 
 gesticulation of the master. Sir Hugh burst forth without pre- 
 paration, requiring Pearson to recollect all he had ever heard or 
 known of any one of the name of Wentworth ; and Pearson, 
 with the utmost composure, began a quiet and rather interesting 
 account of Sir Hugh's first acquaintance with Mr Wentworth ; 
 how they had met in Italy, and he believed Sir Hugh had told 
 him that Lady Charlton had been acquainted with his family; 
 and — no doubt, Sir Hugh would recollect him perfectly — a tall 
 gentleman, very handsome; he used to sing with Miss Adelaide; 
 and, as Pearson glanced doubtingly at Sir Hugh, and saw a 
 pleased smile on his face, he ventured to add, ' People had re- 
 marked — at least he had heard it said — how well Mr Went- 
 worth and Miss Adelaide danced.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, I know. You may go now ; you won't be wanted 
 yet. Lady Blanche will do me the honour of sitting with me. 
 Go; can't you?' and Pearson hastened to escape Sir Hugh's 
 lightning glance. ' Such gossips these people are, my dear,' 
 continued Sir Hugh in his mildest voice. ' Such intolerable 
 gossips ! One would think I was an old man with no memory; 
 telling me all those facts ! Of course, I recollect ! Mr Went- 
 worth was a handsome young man, certainly ; he danced at- 
 tendance upon Adelaide. Lady Charlton grew frightened ; but 
 it was all nonsense ; Adelaide is a great deal too sensible — a 
 shrewd girl you will find out — not equal to Maude. Maude is 
 a genius, — plays, sings, draws — there was a copy of hers, of a 
 Guido, as good as the original. I should not have known the 
 difference ; and I am a very good judge, as good as the earl, I 
 flatter myself; and he has the reputation of being a first-rate 
 connoisseur. Had, that is, some years ago ; — years you can't 
 remember, my dear Blanche, for a very good reason — there was 
 no Lady Blanche then ; no such bright star in the dark firma- 
 ment;' and he bowed with the most studied politeness; 'ex-
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 pept if there must be an exception, — you will not quarrel with 
 mine — the countess, your mother. A charming woman — a very 
 charming woman.' Sir Hugh paused to take breath ; he saw 
 that Blanche had laid down her work at his last words, and was 
 listening eagerly for the rest. ' Poor thing ! Ah ! years gone 
 by ! poor thing ! Yes, I remember perfectly. Mrs Wentworth 
 Avas here a good deal in those days; she must have been this 
 young man's mother.' 
 
 ' Mrs Wentworth was a great friend of dear mamma's/ said 
 Blanche, speaking with an effort ; yet determined, if possible, to 
 keep him for a few minutes to the point. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear — yes, I remember. Mrs Wentworth and the 
 countess, poor thing ! ' and the sigh which accompanied the 
 words evidently came from the heart. Blanche's fingers moved 
 quickly at her work ; but it was from nervousness, not industry. 
 Was the sigh for her mother's death or for her life ? ' Poor 
 thing ! ' again began Sir Hugh. ' Your father is altered, my 
 dear ; a great blow that was — sudden to him. She was a lovely 
 creature ! I had a great regard for her.' 
 
 ' It must have been so sad for papa, being away when she was 
 ill,' observed Blanche. 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose so ; one can't tell. One can never say ! it 
 was a very lonely life. But people were mistaken. A proud 
 man, Lord Rutherford ; — very natural pride, my dear ; don't 
 think I find fault with it. A veiy proud man ! Nobody knows 
 him thoroughly that has not lived with him for years. Lady 
 Charlton and I, of course, are intimately acquainted with his 
 character ; but other people talked great nonsense. However, 
 I always understood him. We had tastes in common. He was 
 devoted to geology. I gave him introductions when he went 
 abroad, and they were of great use to him. I wanted him to 
 take notes, and write. I told him I would assist. If he would 
 have given the facts, I would have dressed them — adopted them 
 and clothed them ; they should have been my " etifans trouves ; " ' 
 and Sir Hugh laughed so long and heartily at his own wit, that 
 he did not perceive how little his companion sympathised with 
 his mirth. 
 
 ' That is the luncheon-bell, I think,' said Blanche, rising and 
 collecting her work. 
 
 ' Luncheon ? so late is it ? But time passes so rapidly " With 
 thee conversing " — you know the rest.' 
 
 ' I am afraid it is easier to forget times and seasons than
 
 74 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 luncheon/ said Blanche ; l but I cannot leave you alone. May 
 I ring for Pearson ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! thoughtful as you are ! it is quite reversing the natural 
 order. A sad enemy is the gout ; very sad, indeed, to an active 
 man in the prime of life ; — a sad enemy ! ' 
 
 Sir Hugh shook his head long and dolefully, but would not 
 allow Blanche to do anything for him. ' It would distress him 
 too much/ he said ; ' it was unnatural, improper — her society, 
 that was all he required — he had been so flattered, so honoured ; ' 
 and, with the words still ringing in her ears, Blanche at last 
 contrived to escape to the drawing-room. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ' A ND so the Wentworths will not come, Blanche/ said Lord 
 ■£*- Rutherford, as his daughter seated herself at the luncheon - 
 table. ' Dr Wentworth has a prior engagement.' 
 
 ' Not come ! How very disappointing ! May I see the 
 note ? ' 
 
 It was from Mrs Wentworth, polite and chilling. Blanche 
 said nothing, but looked very vexed. 
 
 ' I grieve for the failure of my first attempts for society, Ade- 
 laide/ said the earl, addressing his niece. ' Only, remember, it 
 really is not my fault.' 
 
 Blanche took up the note again to examine it. ' A prior en- 
 gagement is so odd. Eleanor must have known that I should 
 want her ; and they are not going out, I am nearly sure, unless 
 it may be Mr Wentworth. He returned yesterday, I believe.' 
 
 Adelaide Charlton looked up eagerly ; but her mother's eye 
 was fixed upon her, and the eagerness vented itself in a quick 
 demand for some bread. 
 
 ' That must be our Mr Wentworth/ said Maude, speaking in 
 a deep but peculiarly mellow voice, which was yet disagreeably 
 abrupt. ' He said he came from Rutherford.' 
 
 ' I thought he was living away/ observed Lady Charlton. 
 
 Her tone struck Blanche directly : it was new to her ; there 
 was more gravity and sternness in it than she was prepared for. 
 
 ' Young Wentworth is a handsome man/ said the earl, care* 
 lessly ; ' but he is too much of a coxcomb to be a gentleman.'
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 75 
 
 ' Those travelled young men very often arc/ observed Lady 
 Charlton. ' It is " We and the world " with them ; and really, 
 at last, one is disgusted in spite of one's self.' 
 
 ' But Mr Wentworth must be superior to that class, I think,' 
 said Blanche ; ' his sister is so fond of him.' 
 
 ' And you swear by his sister then ? ' asked Maude, sharply. 
 
 Blanche was rather startled, and did not know what to reply. 
 
 ' Maude, my dear ; you really must be careful in your expres- 
 sions. Lord Rutherford will think you a complete Goth,' said 
 Lady Charlton. 
 
 ' Give me a better word,' answered Maude, ' and I will use it.' 
 
 ' Maude's favourite theory,' said Lady Charlton, addressing the 
 earl. ' I must tell you of it, to prepare you for anything strange 
 you may hear. She says — what is it, my dear Maude ? Explain 
 your own notions ; you will do it much better than I shall.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford assumed a listening attitude ; but it was clear 
 that he was perfectly indifferent, and Maude raised her piercing 
 gray eyes to his face, and said : 
 
 ' My notions are, that I should like a piece of cake ; if my 
 uncle will be good enough to cut it.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford complied with the request, and did not trouble 
 himself to ask for any further explanation of Maude's notions. 
 Blanche was still silent, pondering upon Eleanor Wentworth's 
 refusal, and a sudden check seemed to have been put to Adelaide's 
 usual vivacity. The party was becoming dull ; and Lady Charl- 
 ton, who dreaded dulness as an enemy, endeavoured to infuse a 
 little spirit into it by inquiring what were the afternoon plans. 
 Blanche observed that the refusal had rather disturbed them ; for 
 Eleanor Wentworth, she had hoped, would have formed one of 
 a riding party with them : at least, with Adelaide and herself. 
 Maude, she understood, very seldom rode. 
 
 ' No, never ; except by myself,' was Maude's ungracious 
 answer. 
 
 ' Papa talked of taking you and my aunt for a drive,' continued 
 Blanche, with a slight air of restraint, caused insensibly by her 
 cousin's manner ; ' and Sir Hugh ' 
 
 ' Oh ! never mind Sir Hugh, my love,' exclaimed Lady Charl- 
 ton. ' Pearson will take care of him. He will not be in a con- 
 dition to move for the next week. But he is quite happy ; don't 
 distress yourself about him : he wants nothing except his new 
 book on geology. A great blessing it is,' she added, more gravely, 
 ( that he can occupy himself : he is devoted to science.'
 
 7 5 THE EARDS DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Blanche/ said the earl, rising suddenly, ' can you come with 
 me and look at the shrubs they have been planting this morning 
 on the bank ? We will prepare for the driving and riding after- 
 wards, if your aunt and your cousins will arrange together what 
 they wish to do.' 
 
 He threw open the window, and walked out upon the terrace. 
 Blanche followed him with a sensation of freedom and pleasure. 
 The earl drew her arm within his : he did not take her to see the 
 shrubs ; but, when they reached the end of the terrace, he turned 
 again, and continued to walk without speaking; though once he 
 passed his hand caressingly over hers, and looked in her face and 
 smiled : and Blanche had learnt to value such a look. Lord 
 Rutherford's laugh was for the world ; his smiles were almost ex- 
 clusively for her. He stopped at length and drew a long breath, 
 and in a light tone exclaimed, ' Well, Blanche ! we are alone 
 again : shall we remain so ? ' 
 
 Blanche hesitated. ' I have not made up my mind, papa : — 
 it is such a very early day. I like them.' 
 
 ' Like them,— yes, I suppose you do. But it is not duty, is it? 
 1 never wish you to like any one from duty.' 
 
 Blanche laughed faintly; she had already learnt that duty was 
 not in her father's catalogue of allowable motives. ' No : I sup- 
 pose it is not from duty ; but feelings are such mixed things, it is 
 hard to analyse them. I am not sure that I shall love them/ 
 she added, more boldly ; ' except, that is, my aunt.' 
 
 ' Lady Charlton is a very sensible woman/ said the earl. ' 1 
 never knew her do but one foolish thing in her life. That 
 scatter-brained piece of pomposity, Sir Hugh ! how could she 
 marry him ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; it is strange, very strange/ said Blanche, thoughtfully ; 
 ' she is so superior, — she could never have loved him.' 
 
 ' Blanche, my child, you must learn to put aside your romance/ 
 said the earl gently, but seriously. ' There arc more marriages 
 in the world without love than you in your simplicity can 
 imagine. I do not wonder at Lady Charlton's marrying without 
 love — no one who has had any experience of life could do so — 
 but it is marvellous that, when she was resolved upon a sacrifice, 
 she should have devoted herself for nothing, — absolutely no- 
 thing/ he added, angrily. 
 
 ' Yet she must have loved him, too, I suppose/ said Blanche, 
 musingly. ' If there was nothing else, it must have been love ; 
 I should not like to think it was not.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 77 
 
 1 Not like it ! ' said the earl. ' Why, what could it signify to 
 you ? ' 
 
 ; Because,' replied Blanche, and the colour deepened on her 
 cheek, and she spoke hurriedly — 'because it seems a false thing 
 to do to marry without it : it is an untruth ; it cannot really 
 bring a blessing : at least, I think not, — it seems so to me,' she 
 added, timidly, as if ashamed of her own eagerness. 
 
 The earl paused : his voice was altered when he spoke again ; 
 it was low and tremulous. ' And you believe that love must 
 bring a blessing ; that it must be happiness ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Yes ; real, true, holy love,' replied Blanche : ' surely it must 
 be so.' 
 
 ' It may be, — one cannot tell,' answered the earl ; and then 
 in an under-tone he added, ' Yet it is a dream — an unreality.' 
 
 ' That is not what people generally think it ; is it ? ' said 
 Blanche, quickly, for she was struck by the peculiarity of his 
 manner. 
 
 ' They call it happiness,' said the earl ; ' but they do not 
 know their own meaning. Happiness ! ' he repeated, bitterly ; 
 ' no happiness is for the cold and calculating ; for those who 
 can trust themselves, who know their own weakness, and can 
 foresee the consequences of their own actions. Love is impulse, 
 feeling, excitement.' 
 
 ' But there is something in it besides, calmer and deeper,' 
 replied Blanche ; ' or it could never last ; and marriage would 
 be miserable, most miserable,' she added, earnestly. 
 
 Lord Rutherford stopped suddenly in his walk. ' Did you 
 ever hear of a miserable marriage, Blanche ? ' he said, quickly. 
 
 ' In books, people have said it ; — there arc such things,' re- 
 plied Blanche, almost frightened by his manner. 
 
 He laughed sarcastically. ' Yes, in another sphere, — in the 
 world, the dreamy world : not in the real Utopia of St Ebbe's.' 
 He was going to turn again on the terrace ; but, checking 
 himself, added, in his usual tone, ' This is but idle talking. Go 
 to your aunt, Blanche, and settle what you will. I will ride 
 with you, if you wish it.' He did not wait for question or reply, 
 but strode down the walk which led to the river's bank, and was 
 soon lost to sight amongst the thick trees. 
 
 ' You are not going out with Adelaide, merely to please her, 
 my love ?' said Lady Charlton, as Blanche, about half an hour 
 afterwards, came into the room dressed in her riding-habit, and 
 looking rather grave.
 
 78 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Blanche brightened in an instant, and said that riding was 
 her favourite exercise : but her aunt did not seem satisfied. 
 
 ' We shall not stay with you, my dear, if you allow us to in- 
 terrupt your usual habits. You are very busy, I am sure. No 
 one could have been educated by Mrs Howard without being so.' 
 
 ' Mrs Howard is so good with her business,' exclaimed 
 Blanche ; ' she is so really useful : what I have to do is very 
 little. I am sure, if she could be here, she would put me in 
 the way of doing a great deal more.' 
 
 'But she is coming to you, is she not?' inquired Lady 
 Charlton. ' I am sure I heard your father say something 
 about it.' 
 
 ' She was to have come ; but she has been obliged to delay — ■ 
 one of her nieces is ill/ said Blanche. ' I am longing for her, 
 to help me in everything ; to make me methodical and energetic/ 
 and like herself, if she could,' she added, laughing. 
 
 Lady Charlton began the first words of a compliment, but 
 stopped. ' I won't say what I was going to say, my dear ; I 
 don't think it would be in your way, though it would be true ; 
 and I will not offer to take Mrs Howard's place, — that would 
 be out of the question ; but you must let me know if I can ever 
 be of any use to you. I dare say you go about amongst the 
 poor people. Your dear mother always did,' she said, with a 
 change of tone which made Blanche's heart thrill, though she 
 could not trust herself at that moment to answer the allusion. 
 
 ' I go sometimes,' was all she replied. 
 
 Lady Charlton drew near and kissed her tenderly. ' You 
 shall let me go with you ; I shall like it. It will seem that the 
 old times are come back — quite — when I look at you,' she 
 added, gazing in Blanche's face with a sad smile. 
 
 Blanche returned the kiss, and, unfastening a brooch which 
 she always wore, showed a miniature, exquisitely painted. 
 ' Will you tell me if it is like ? ' she said. ' I have been afraid 
 to ask papa.' 
 
 Lady Charlton took the brooch in her hand, and turned to 
 the light. She was looking at it attentively, and Blanche, 
 leaning over her, was waiting with great interest for her opinion. 
 Lord Rutherford came to the window. Blanche, by a kind of 
 instinct took the brooch hastily from her aunt ; but not before 
 the earl had remarked it. 
 
 ' A new trinket, Blanche ? ' he exclaimed, cheerfully. ' Let 
 me see.'
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 7y 
 
 Blanche's hand shook, and the brooch fell to the ground. 
 The carl stooped to pick it up. There was a silence of some 
 moments. 
 
 Lady Charlton said, ' It is very like,' and held out her hand 
 for it. 
 
 ' The carriage is waiting/ was all Lord Rutherford's reply. 
 
 He walked away, and Lady Charlton, as she returned the 
 brooch to Blanche, said, ' You shall talk to me, my love : it is 
 not a subject for him.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE first determination which Blanche formed the next day 
 was that she would go to the parsonage early. The dis- 
 appointment of the preceding afternoon had vexed her con- 
 siderably, and she was resolved not to run the risk of another 
 refusal. She would go herself and make the request, and then 
 it could not, she hoped, be denied. 
 
 The subject was mentioned casually at breakfast. Blanche 
 began to feel herself sufficiently at home with her aunt and 
 cousins to leave them to themselves, and said she should go to 
 the rectory the first thing, and engage Eleanor for the day ; 
 ' and we will walk, if you like it, in the afternoon/ she added, 
 addressing Lady Charlton. * I must go into the village.' 
 
 ' Must ! my love/ exclaimed the earl quickly. ' Who says 
 must to you?' 
 
 ' I say it to myself/ replied Blanche, smiling : ' it is not an 
 imperative must ; only my aunt said she would like to go with 
 me sometimes ; and ' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, certainly/ interposed Lady Charlton ; ' of all 
 things I shall like to accompany you ; but to-day, I rather 
 think, I have an engagement. A great friend of mine, Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey, is staying in this neighbourhood, and I pro- 
 mised to go and see her when I came here. She is on a visit 
 to the Donningtons. I think I had better take advantage of 
 die fair weather. Ady, what do you say ? ' 
 
 Adelaide answered carelessly that, if it must be, she supposed 
 it had better be ; but that Maude would do just as well as 
 herself. ' I shall go with Blanche this morning, if I may/ she
 
 8o THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 continued. ' Blanche, you will take me to the rector}' ; I 
 delight in walking the first thing after breakfast.' 
 
 ' Immensely intimate,' said Maude, in her cold sepulchral 
 tone ; ' the civility must be for Mr Wentworth : you don't 
 know any one else.' 
 
 ' You will stay at home, Ady,' interrupted Lady Charlton, 
 glancing quickly at the earl ; but he was now engrossed in the 
 newspaper, and knew nothing that was passing. 
 
 Blanche was puzzled for an instant, but took the matter 
 simply, and assured them that ceremony with the Wentworths 
 would be quite unnecessary. They met every day. If Adelaide 
 liked to go, she might do so easily. 
 
 ' She will stay at home, my dear,' repeated Lady Charlton, de- 
 cidedly ; and of course the question was supposed to be settled. 
 
 But Blanche stood at the green gate of the rectory, and was 
 trying to open it, when she heard some one behind her say, 
 laughingly, ' Where there is a will there is a way, Blanche. 
 Did you never hear that before ? An exceedingly romantic 
 spot this for a parsonage, I must say.' 
 
 Blanche was silent from surprise. 
 
 ' I can open the gate, I daresay,' continued Adelaide ; ' or 
 - — look, there is Mr Wentworth.' 
 
 Blanche was excessively annoyed, and answered, coolly, that 
 she would not trouble Mr Wentworth ; she should leave a 
 message for Eleanor, and go back. 
 
 ' When you have come on purpose to see her ? I am sure 
 you will not do anything of the kind : you could not be so capri- 
 cious. Mr Wentworth ' and as the gentleman drew near, 
 
 Adelaide held out her hand with the ease of an old acquaint- 
 ance. ' How very strange? Where did you drop from?' 
 
 Mr Wentworth reciprocated the surprise, expressed a due 
 amount of pleasure, and threw open the gate. 
 
 Adelaide waited for her cousin to go forward ; but Blanche 
 paused resolutely. ' Thank you,' she said, addressing Mr 
 Wentworth, ' but I am afraid I must return now. Since we 
 have met you, perhaps you will do me the favour to deliver 
 a message to Eleanor. I want her very much to spend the 
 day with me, and to come as early as possible. Mrs Went- 
 worth is quite well, I hope ? ' 
 
 ' Quite, thank you ; but surely, — indeed, Lady Blanche, you 
 must not go back without seeing my mother; she will be vexed 
 if you don't ; you have given yourself so much trouble.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 81 
 
 1 Only a pleasant walk,' replied Blanche. ' Pray say to Mrs 
 Wentworth how sorry we were she could not dine with us yes- 
 terday. Good morning.' She bowed, and turned away ; but 
 Adelaide was already within the gate. Such a bewitching rose 
 she had seen ! — amongst the briers, — nearly hidden it was, — 
 Mr Wentworth must give it her. 
 
 Mr Wentworth plunged into the thicket, and Adelaide still 
 advanced. Blanche could not let her go on alone, for the next 
 moment she would be in front of the house : and so she was ; 
 and not only before the house, but before the whole family 
 party who were talking together on the lawn. Blanche had 
 nothing to do but go up to them, and introduce her cousin and 
 apologise ; though the apology was a difficulty, for her gentle 
 spirit was very considerably roused. 
 
 Setting aside the neglect of Lady Charlton's wishes, Adelaide 
 was unquestionably rude to herself, and Blanche had never 
 experienced rudeness before. Mrs Wentworth received the 
 excuse for the intrusion politely, but without any cordiality ; 
 and even Eleanor's warm kiss and exclamation of delight could 
 not take away the general awkwardness. Adelaide alone was 
 quite at her ease, and admired the house and garden in a tone 
 of easy familiarity, not unmixed with patronage, which made 
 Mrs Wentworth's civility freeze into a stiffness nearly amounting 
 to haughtiness. 
 
 The restraint, however, was at an end, when both Dr and 
 Mrs Wentworth were called away. Then Eleanor and Blanche 
 strolled to a distance by themselves ; and Adelaide, declaring 
 that the walk had tired her, and therefore she would wait till 
 they returned, threw herself upon a garden bench, and began a 
 quick, laughing conversation of reminiscences with Mr Went- 
 worth. 
 
 ' You are worried, Blanche,' was Eleanor's first observation, 
 when they were beyond hearing. ' You have never looked as 
 you do now since the days when we used to puzzle over Dante 
 together.' 
 
 ' I wish it was a Dante worry now,' replied Blanche : ' I 
 could understand that ; but really to be angry and uncomfort- 
 able without knowing why, is rather trying.' 
 
 ' Are things going wrong at the castle ?' inquired Eleanor. 
 
 ' Oh, no ! not in the least, — that is, I suppose they are not ; 
 but new people fret me and puzzle me. I don't know what 
 they mean ; and Adelaide Charlton is so persevering, — so 
 
 F
 
 82 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 wilful, I suppose Mrs Howard would say ; and her manner is 
 — I can't tell what to call it — but excessively disagreeable.' 
 
 Eleanor laughed heartily. ' Now, that really is delightful, 
 Blanche, to find that you can be severe like the rest of the 
 world.' 
 
 ' It is not for myself,' continued Blanche ; ' really I should 
 not care what she did or said with me ; we are cousins, and it 
 does not signify : but it must look very strange to your mother. 
 By Adelaide's tone, I should have fancied her to have been your 
 intimate friend for years.' 
 
 1 Knowing Charles well makes her at home with us, I sup- 
 pose,' replied Eleanor : ' he said to me yesterday that he knew 
 her in Italy. But do forget her oddity, Blanche, if you can, 
 and tell me how you are going on altogether.' 
 
 Blanche sighed, and then laughed. ' I can't tell, and I don't 
 know anything ; I believe I am quite cross this morning. The 
 castle seems in a complete bustle. My aunt has brought such 
 innumerable servants, I stumble upon a new face in every 
 corner. And it is so noisy to what it was : even when I am 
 alone, the atmosphere of bustle seems to be around me. More- 
 over, I suspect I shall see exceedingly little of papa ; for you 
 know it is not really seeing him, talking in a common way 
 when other people are present : and Sir Hugh has taken pos- 
 session of the library, so that I can't get the books I want ; 
 and Adelaide sings snatches of songs to the piano, and will not 
 practise a single thing steadily with me ; and Maude reads and 
 says nothing, but looks as if she was not at all happy. In fact, 
 Eleanor, I suspect I am immensely selfish ; — I mean it in 
 earnest ! ' 
 
 Again Eleanor laughed, and expressed herself charmed to 
 find that Blanche could descend to the level of humanity, and 
 be tormented by trifles. ' Put out ; actually put out,' she ex- 
 claimed, ' as I am when Susan says her lessons badly.' 
 
 Blanche was silent for a few moments. She was full of 
 thought. ' There is a way of taking things, I am sure,' she 
 said ; ' a right way and a wrong. Just as when one begins to 
 wind a skein of silk ; if one can find the right end, it all runs 
 smoothly ; and if one begins with the wrong, it must be en- 
 tangled. When I can understand them all better, perhaps I 
 may be able to find the right end. Just now there seems an 
 entanglement :— wills and ways mixing. They never mixed at 
 St Ebbe's.'
 
 THE EAR US DAUGHTER. 83 
 
 'My dear Blanche, how exceedingly amusing!' exclaimed 
 Eleanor ; ' but you never were in a home before, — I forgot. 
 You don't understand what it is for grown-up people to live 
 together. Why that sort of mixing of wills and ways, as you 
 call it, goes on perpetually here.' 
 
 ' Does it?' said Blanche. ' But how do you manage?' 
 
 ' I go my own way, and let other people go theirs,' said 
 Eleanor, lightly ; ' and things come round again.' 
 
 ' But I don't see exactly how it can be here,' observed 
 Blanche. ' Your father and mother are so good, and your 
 brother' 
 
 'Ah!' interrupted Eleanor, 'that is the point. Charles is 
 delightful, exceedingly clever, and he can talk amusingly, and 
 sketch, and sing duets, and rave about Italy ; there is no one 
 like him. But it does not quite do • it does not suit papa and 
 mamma : they think a clergyman ought to be graver, and they 
 don't know what Charles is really like ; and so they are vexed 
 with him ; and he is provoked, and complains to me, and takes 
 up my time in listening to him : and then Susan is idle because 
 I don't attend to her, and mamma is angry with me because 
 she says I neglect my duties ; and there is a history of my 
 home, Blanche ; so now choose between the two.' Blanche 
 did not attempt to choose. A shadow of the deeper anxiety 
 which was for ever corroding her peace crossed her mind, and 
 the lighter evils of which they had both been complaining 
 melted into nothing. Adelaide Charlton's laugh just then 
 reached them. Eleanor stopped and listened. 
 
 ' She is happy,' said Blanche, gravely. 
 
 Eleanor looked round in wonder. ' That from you, Blanche ! 
 One would suppose you envied her.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, never ; but I suppose it is natural to some people 
 not to think. However, I did not come here to moralise ; we 
 must settle what Ave will do to-day. You will come to the 
 castle as soon as you possibly can ; and then we will walk, if 
 you like it, in the afternoon. My aunt is going to pay visits, 
 and I thought you and I might go together to see poor Susannah 
 Dyer.' 
 
 Eleanor hesitated for an instant. ' You are going to walk ? ' 
 she repeated, in a musing tone. 
 
 1 Yes ; do you see any objection ; would you rather not ? I 
 thought, as it was our settled day, we had better not put it off.' 
 
 * Is it our day? I had forgotten/ said Eleanor.
 
 84 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Yes, on Thursdays we agreed to go ; and as my aunt will 
 probably be here a long time, it seemed desirable not to give up 
 one's usual duties, if it could be helped. My aunt does not wish 
 it ; she told me so yesterday ; and she half offered to go with 
 me herself.' 
 
 ' Lady Charlton ! ' exclaimed Eleanor. 
 
 ' Yes ; she is not at all what I know you fancied her ; she is 
 not in the least a fine lady. I put her out of my catalogue of 
 worries, for she is delightful.' 
 
 ' But she will not go with us,' observed Eleanor. 
 
 ' No, because of the visit ; we shall have the afternoon to 
 ourselves. Dear Eleanor ! I shall enjoy it so very much.' 
 
 Eleanor could not help being pleased. The tone of Blanche's 
 voice was in itself sufficiently animating to dispel the feeling of 
 distrust which was continually lurking, though unperceived, in 
 her mind. She agreed that it would be very pleasant, and very 
 right ; and began to discover decided reasons why it was neces- 
 sary they should go — the chief being, that as they had promised 
 it would be necessary to keep the engagement, and that poor 
 Susannah Dyer being blind, and helpless, and ill, had a par- 
 ticular claim upon them. 
 
 ' And now I must go back,' said Blanche, when the point was 
 settled. ' Back to my duties. Such strange ones they are, 
 Eleanor ; so unfitted for me ; at least so unlike all that I should 
 have formed for myself.' 
 
 ' To stay in the drawing-room and play the agreeable, and be 
 referred to as the lady of the house,' said Eleanor. ' I shall 
 like to come and see how you behave.' 
 
 ' No, you would not like it,' exclaimed Blanche, energetically. 
 ' One never does like to see people out of their sphere ; mine 
 most decidedly is not to rule. You must see my aunt, Eleanor ; 
 she is the person to be at the head of affairs ; you would say at 
 once that she could decide every question brought before her, 
 and could tell precisely how, and why, and when everything 
 should be done. Papa says she has immense tact, and I think 
 I can see it. There is an indescribable something about her 
 which is veiy charming ; her walk, the turn of her head, her 
 smile — and very handsome she is too ! handsome for her age ; 
 she must have been beautiful.' 
 
 ' I shall be afraid of her,' said Eleanor, coldly and proudly. 
 
 ' Oh ! indeed, I don't think you will ; though one or two 
 things make me think she might be alarming if she chose it.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. tr-jj 
 
 I doubt whether Maud or Adelaide get on with her ; she seems 
 very short with them ; and Maude shuts herself up the moment 
 her mother comes into the room. As for Adelaide, she rattles 
 on always ; but there is a difference even in her.' 
 
 ' And Sir Hugh/ inquired Eleanor ; ' what is he like ? ' 
 
 Blanche appeared uncertain how to reply, and after waiting 
 some seconds, laughed and said, ' I don't think it is fair to ques- 
 tion me in this manner about my relations ; you shall come and 
 judge for yourself. But I must go now, I have been very rude 
 in leaving Adelaide such a time.' 
 
 ' I don't imagine Miss Charlton thinks you rude,' said Eleanor, 
 looking towards her brother and Adelaide. ' I doubt whether 
 she is tired of her companion.' 
 
 Blanche stood still, and watched them. Adelaide, sitting up- 
 right, was speaking quickly ; and Mr Went worth, standing 
 before her and playing with a walking-stick, was listening with 
 an expression — which, to Blanche, seemed that of attentive 
 deference. 
 
 ' He is very handsome, Blanche ; is he not ? ' said Eleanor. 
 
 Blanche smiled thoughtfully. ' Yes, very ; extremely hand- 
 some. I am glad Adelaide has some one to talk to that she 
 likes.' She walked on quickly. Eleanor would not make an- 
 otner observation, for she was disappointed. They heard Mr 
 Wentworth say, as they drew near, ' The charm is not in the 
 place, but in the people.' He spoke with feeling ; but Adelaide 
 only laughed, and rallied him for his old-fashioned sentiment- 
 ality ; and as Blanche approached, thanked her for having 
 interrupted their teie-a-icte, which she declared was becoming 
 tiresome, as they had said all they could think of. Mr Went- 
 worth turned from her, and addressed a few words to Blanche ; 
 but, after a short interval, Adelaide again dexterously engaged 
 his attention, and kept up a series of bantering repartees till they 
 reached the shrubbery-gate. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 BLANCHE returned home dissatisfied. It was provoking 
 to have spent half her morning without pleasure or pro- 
 fit ; for her conversation with Eleanor had brought her neither.
 
 86 THE EAR US DAUGHTER. 
 
 It was unconnected, desultory, and not free from petulance and 
 irritation. She found Lady Charlton and Maude in the morn- 
 ing-room ; one working, the other reading. Blanche took out 
 her drawing materials. She was determined to employ herself 
 in something which would tone her mind, and the drawing was 
 one which her father particularly wished her to copy. Lady 
 Charlton no sooner observed what she was doing than she left 
 her worsted frame, and stood by watching her, and called to 
 Maude to come and admire ; but Maude only turned round 
 languidly, and contriving to peep at the drawing without giving 
 herself trouble, said nothing, and returned to her reading. 
 Lady Charlton laughed at her as sadly uncouth in manner, but 
 assured Blanche that it was always her way, she was such a 
 first-rate connoisseur ; she would admire nothing except Raphael 
 and Guido and the old Italian masters ; and then, saying that 
 sh° must inquire if Sir Hugh was dressed, she left the room. 
 
 Blanche went on drawing and thinking, in a tranquil, undis- 
 turbed state, which was very soothing. She was copying a 
 Holy Family from an engraving, colouring it according to her 
 own taste ; and, as the first soft hue brought out the beautiful 
 outline of the group, her attention was more and more fixed upon 
 it. She had no wish for conversation ; silence was natural to 
 her, especially since she had lately spent so many hours alone ; 
 and Maude, leaning back in her easy-chair, turned the leaves 
 of her book so quietly that Blanche soon lost all consciousness 
 of her presence. She finished the first tint, and, laying down 
 her brush, took up the print to examine it more closely. The 
 expression of the different faces was wonderful ; pure, simple, 
 almost severe, in their high spiritual beauty. Blanche forgot that 
 she was an artist ; she forgot to criticise or admire, and, resting 
 her head upon her hand, she bent over it wrapt in thought. 
 
 ' Are you dreaming ? ; was the question which woke her from 
 her reverie, spoken in Maude's deep voice of melody. She was 
 standing at a little distance with a closed book in her hand ; a 
 smile was upon her lips, but it had nothing of gentleness in it. 
 Blanche started as she was addressed. 
 
 ' You were dreaming/ repeated Maude. ' Was it of the 
 colour of Joseph's robe V and she laughed. 
 
 Blanche took up her pencil and replied, ' It is difficult not to 
 dream a little with such a beautiful subject before one.' 
 
 ' It is beautiful, is it ?' continued Maude, in the same careless 
 way. She drew nearer to the table.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 87 
 
 Blanche moved her own drawing, and placed the engraving 
 in a good light, and then was going away. 
 
 < Don't go,' said Maude, putting her hand upon her shoulder : 
 ' tell me why you like it?' 
 
 < Why V and Blanche's eye flashed with enthusiasm} 'because 
 it is unearthly, pure — because it raises one's mind to look at 
 it — because,' she added, her voice unconsciously sinking, ' it 
 brings before one the only reality.' 
 
 She was again going, but Maude a second time detained her. 
 'Then you don't like it because it is a good drawing?' she 
 said, abruptly. 
 
 ' In a measure I do ; but that is a different kind of admira- 
 tion — it is an artist's, and I am no artist.' 
 
 Maude took the engraving in her hand, and turned to the 
 light. ' That finger is out of proportion/ she said, pointing to 
 the extended hand of the Virgin. She laid the print on the 
 table, and gazing from the window, allowed Blanche to resume 
 her drawing without further comment. 
 
 Blanche began her work in a different spirit. She was no 
 longer unconscious that Maude was in the room, her presence 
 oppressed her, and she could not succeed. Maude came behind 
 her, and hummed a light French air; and Blanche, in despair, 
 laid down her pencil, and looking round, said simply, ' If you 
 don't mind very much — if you would not think me odd — I 
 should be so glad if you would go away.' 
 
 Maude did not move. ' Which do you like least,' she said : 
 ' my presence, or my song ? ' 
 
 ' I like neither,' replied Blanche, laughing. 
 
 1 Don't you ? But listen ! I will try something else.' 
 
 She leant against Blanche's chair and paused for a second ; 
 and then, as if a voice sounded in the far distance, the melody 
 of a German hymn fell upon Blanche's ear, soft at first, and 
 liquid in its sweetness, but gradually swelling and deepening, 
 till the full burst of praise seemed to fill the spacious room. It 
 ceased suddenly as it had begun, and there was silence. 
 
 A tear rolled down Blanche's cheek. 
 
 Maude pretended not to notice it, but in her natural quick 
 manner exclaimed, ' You have not told me a word about your 
 visit this morning. Did Adelaide carry on her flirtation suc- 
 cessfully ? I knew she would go.' 
 
 ' I should like to hear it again,' said Blanche, unheeding the 
 question ; and looking up at her cousin with a peculiar smile — ■ 
 half of melancholy, and half of eager delight.
 
 HS THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' You like music, do you?' said Maude. She seated herself 
 at the piano and touched a few chords, whilst Blanche returned 
 to her drawing. Maude suffered her fingers to wander over the 
 keys, slowly at the commencement, and as it were thoughtfully ; 
 but increasing in power and force till they moved with a rapi- 
 dity which was electrifying. But again they sank into a low 
 prelude, and the same clear flute-like notes, which before had 
 seemed to Blanche as scarcely belonging to a human voice, were 
 blended with them. The words were distinct as the music. 
 
 1 II passato non & 
 Ma se lo pinge 
 La viva remembranza. 
 II futuro non e, 
 Ma se lo finge 
 La credula speranza. 
 II presente sol e, 
 Che in un baleno 
 Passa del nulla in seno. 
 Dunque la vita e appunto 
 Una memoria, una speranza, un punto.' 
 
 As the song proceeded, Blanche's pencil dropped from her 
 hand. So surpassingly sweet it was, so thrilling in its mourn- 
 ful melody, so real in its expression, it seemed the true language 
 in which the vanity of human life should be told. Maude re- 
 peated the last lines to herself, whilst she carelessly turned the 
 leaves of a music-book which was open before her. 
 
 Blanche left her seat, and stood beside her. 
 
 ' " Una memoria, una speranza, un punto ; " 
 
 and that is all !' exclaimed Maude, looking round. 
 
 Blanche's colour deepened, and then it faded quite away, as 
 she said, whilst her voice faltered, ' Oh, Maude ! could you 
 bear to think so ? ' 
 
 ' It is truth,' answered Maude. ' There needs no ghost come 
 from the grave to tell us of it.' And she sang the two last lines 
 again, with an intensity of feeling which she did not attempt to 
 check. 
 
 Blanche stood with her eyes riveted upon her — drinking in 
 the sounds, which at each repetition seemed more and more 
 perfect. 
 
 ' Tell me,' exclaimed Maude, with an air of triumph, as she 
 ended, ' What is it, if it is not so ? Where is the past ? In 
 what part of the world will you dig till you can find it?'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 89 
 
 * Rut how can that which has been cease to be ?' said 
 Blanche, raising her eyes timidly to her cousin's face. 
 
 Maude paused, and regarding her steadily, said, ' Are you a 
 child, Blanche, or a woman?' 
 
 ' A child, I believe,' replied Blanche, laughing. ' Papa tells 
 me so.' 
 
 ' Yet you have notions — what are they ?' The question was 
 put with such an air of command, that Blanche, for a moment, 
 felt herself bound to obey it; but it was only for a moment, and 
 she answered with reserve that it was hard to explain them; 
 perhaps when they had been together longer it would be less 
 difficult. 
 
 ' But I like notions, I like theories,' persisted Maude, her 
 large gray eyes lighted up with what might almost have been 
 termed a fierce eagerness. ' I must know,' she added, laying 
 her hand upon Blanche's wrist. 
 
 Blanche drew back. A very slight accent of hauteur might 
 have been perceptible in the tone in which she said, ' Another 
 time, not now.' 
 
 Maude's brow was clouded; she rose from the piano, threw 
 herself into a chair, took a book from the table, and tossed it 
 down with an air of contempt; and, after some time, began 
 walking about the room. 
 
 Blanche was annoyed with herself for being annoyed. She 
 scarcely knew why she had been ; and she sat at her drawing- 
 table, busied in discovering the state of her own mind, and 
 wishing that Maude would speak again and give her the oppor- 
 tunity of making something like an apology. 
 
 The silence was long and awkward, and disturbed at length 
 by the dull, slow, heavy sound of crutches. 
 
 ' Sir Hugh is dressed, I suppose,' said Blanche, glad to find 
 something to say. 
 
 Maude did not reply. 
 
 The sound grew louder, and the complaining voice of Sir 
 Hugh was heard, telling Pearson, as usual, that he was a 
 desperate idiot. 
 
 Maude laughed sarcastically at the mild, deprecatory intona- 
 tion which followed. She took up her book, and disappeared 
 through the window, whilst Blanche went to the door. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear Blanche ! I thought I should find you here ; 
 my first walk, you see. I was determined to pay my respects to 
 you. A delightful room this ! — infinitely improved ! — What in
 
 go THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the name of wonder are you doing, Pearson ? Why don't you 
 keep behind me ? — Infinitely improved, my dear. That window 
 I remember quite well. It was a plan of my own ; I saw how 
 things ought to be long ago ; but your father — a very first-rate 
 man is the earl ; don't imagine that I have not the highest appre- 
 ciation of his talents. Excuse me, will you ? may I be allowed 
 to rest ? ' And Sir Hugh was assisted into an arm-chair ; 
 and, to the consternation of Blanche, wheeled to a comfortable 
 convenient position, which he evidently intended should, at least 
 for the present, be a permanent one. ' I was telling you,' began 
 Sir Hugh again ; but he was interrupted by an exclamation — 
 
 ' Sir Hugh ! this really is too bad ! It is far too great an 
 exertion for him, Blanche ; but he would come — he was so 
 charmed with your half-hour's conversation yesterday. It won't 
 do though. — Pearson, you must help your master back to the 
 study.' 
 
 ' Lady Charlton ! Frances, my dear ! I insist ; — you must 
 not interfere. I was telling you, my dear Blanche ' 
 
 Lady Charlton broke in again. ' My dear Sir Hugh ;— in- 
 deed, I must have my own way. Hark ! really there are 
 visitors ; and the earl — that is his footstep, I am certain. I 
 assure you, Sir Hugh, you make me quite anxious. It is too 
 much, a great deal too much for you,' she added, her tone 
 becoming gradually but perceptibly irritable ; and taking the 
 crutch from Pearson's hand, she put it near her husband. 
 
 ' Pshaw ! Lady Charlton,' and with an impatient jerk the 
 crutch was thrown to the ground, to the imminent peril of Pear- 
 son's toes. My dear Blanche, I was telling you ' — — - 
 
 The sparkle of Lady Charlton's eye alone told what was 
 passing in her thoughts. When the door immediately after- 
 wards opened, and the earl introduced Mr and Miss Wentworth, 
 her manner was that of the most bland good-humour. 
 
 ' So distressed I am ! so exceedingly distressed ! ' began Sir 
 Hugh, attempting to rise as Eleanor came up to him. 
 
 Lady Charlton stood close beside him. ' Poor Sir Hugh ! 
 He has been suffering fearfully : he is not fit to be here ; but 
 his spirits carry him beyond his strength. Your brother is an 
 old acquaintance, Miss Wentworth. We met last year at 
 Florence.' 
 
 Mr Wentworth was upon the point of holding out his hand to 
 receive a cordial greeting ; but the extreme civility of Lady 
 Charlton's reception made him exchange the proposed shake of
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 91 
 
 the hand for a bow, and a hope that Lady Charlton had been 
 well since he last had the honour of seeing her. 
 
 ' Quite well, thank you. You were in Italy, I believe, long 
 after us.' 
 
 ' Only a few weeks ; Florence became very dull.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! I was not aware of it. We saw little general 
 society. Rumours reached us of gaieties, but as you know,' 
 appealing to the earl, < general society is not very inviting 
 abroad.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford carelessly assented. 
 
 ' We had a splendid summer at Florence, Mr Wcntworth,' 
 said Sir Hugh ; ' I don't know whether you ever recollect such 
 
 another. I don't, except the year Lord Rutherford can 
 
 tell the date, I daresay ; we were travellers together, taking a 
 scientific tour on the Rhine. If you remember,' he continued, 
 addressing the earl, ' you were developing your sketching powers, 
 and I flatter myself you made considerable progress, by the help 
 of a few occasional hints ; the few hints, Mr Wentworth, which 
 a man engrossed in a great object could afford to give. Geology 
 was my study : I gave up everything for it.' 
 
 ' Twenty years ago/ said the earl coolly. — ' Blanche, my love, 
 how has your drawing advanced this morning ? ' 
 
 Blanche brought it forward to be criticised. 
 
 Mr Wentworth had recovered from the slight shock of Lady 
 Charlton's reception, and now, with a very quiet and rather dig- 
 nified air, joined in the remarks which the engraving and the 
 copy called forth. Sir Hugh looked on from a distance, stretch- 
 ing his head, and constantly endeavouring to interpose observa- 
 tions of his own, which were as constantly taken up by Lady 
 Charlton and repeated in a new form, and, to judge from Mr 
 Wentworth's manner, an interesting one, for his marked atten- 
 tion was given to whatever she uttered ; and, as Lord Rutherford 
 was about to replace the drawing in its former position, he 
 begged permission to bring it nearer for her inspection and Sir 
 Hugh's. 
 
 Blanche liked him better as she watched what was passing ; 
 she had not thought before that he could be so easy and agree- 
 able, and yet so respectful. 
 
 ' A very pleasant thing it is to meet a travelled friend again, 
 Mr Wentworth,' said Sir Hugh, quite excited by the patience 
 with which a disquisition upon the comparative merits of two of 
 the early Italian masters had been listened to ; ' quite a gratifi-
 
 92 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 cation, I assure you. Lady Charlton and myself shall have 
 great pleasure in renewing past recollections ; and my daughters 
 ■ — Maude ! where is Maude? My dear Blanche, surely she has 
 been with you this morning ? ' 
 
 ' Maude is walking on the terrace,' said Lady Charlton, quickly, 
 ' and Adelaide is rambling over the grounds, I suppose ; she 
 went out directly after breakfast.' 
 
 Blanche did not think it well to throw more light than was 
 necessary upon the movements of either. There was a certain 
 intonation in her aunt's voice which she was just beginning to 
 interpret. 
 
 ' Ah, well, you will meet at luncheon ; but I forgot — really 
 —Lord Rutherford — Lady Blanche, I ought to apologise.' 
 Lady Charlton bit her lip, and gave an apparently involuntary 
 push to Sir Hugh's chair, which made him stop short, with an 
 exclamation of pain. 
 
 Lord Rutherford was talking to Eleanor at the window, and 
 did not hear what was said, and the burden of hospitality fell 
 upon Blanche. Gracefully but timidly she repeated the request 
 that Mr Wentworth would remain; and the invitation was soon 
 seconded by the earl with that perfect though distant politeness 
 which leaves no room for complaint. Mr Wentworth was there- 
 fore established on a comparatively familiar footing ; and 
 Blanche, feeling herself no longer bound to entertain him, left 
 the room with Eleanor. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 TMPORTANT consequences, it is well known, often follow 
 i- from very slight beginnings. Mr Wentworth's first intro- 
 duction at Rutherford Castle was marked by no circumstances 
 but those incidental to morning visits ; yet it gave the tone to 
 the intercourse which was to follow. 
 
 The earl's reserve and pride would have induced him to hesi- 
 tate long before he allowed any persons in the neighbourhood, 
 except his own peculiar friends, to be on such terms as to call 
 early, and lounge away an hour and remain to luncheon, and 
 perhaps join the riding and walking parties in the afternoon ; 
 but what had been done once came i cither naturally a second
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 93 
 
 time, and certainly Lord Rutherford had no cause to suppose 
 that Mr Wentworth's presence or absence had the slightest effect 
 upon the only individual with whom he chose to concern him- 
 self. Even as Eleanor's brother Blanche could only partially 
 like Mr Wcntworth. His talents, his versatility of manner and 
 ease of conversation, and the right principle and good sense 
 which he always put forth when conversing with her, could not 
 blind her to his faults ; and Blanche could only feel interest 
 where she felt respect. It was perfectly indifferent to herself 
 whether Mr Wentworth formed one of the circle or not ; but 
 childlike though she was, and simple in many of her ideas, 
 Blanche could not fail to perceive that it was not so to others. 
 Yet, even when the fact was acknowledged, Blanche scarcely 
 thought of it. She noticed that Adelaide Charlton liked to talk 
 and laugh with Mr Wentworth ; and she observed that for some 
 reason or other Lady Charlton frowned and looked vexed ; and 
 she discovered that Mr Wentworth contrived to ingratiate him- 
 self with Sir Hugh, and was rather disliked by Maude. But 
 the little incidents, which would have afforded matter for sar- 
 casm and ridicule to a more experienced eye, passed before her 
 as the scenes of a theatre before a pre-occupied, abstracted spec- 
 tator. For Blanche lived in a world of her own ; or rather she 
 lived in the world of her friends and relations, seeing the same 
 sights, hearing the same sounds, and performing the same 
 actions, yet often deriving impressions totally contrary to theirs 
 from all that was passing around. 
 
 So probably it must often be when religion becomes the pre- 
 dominant feeling of the heart very early in life : it is all-power- 
 ful then, for it has no master passion to oppose it. Adopted 
 later in life, it must struggle with past evil recollections, and be 
 frequently crushed and overborne by what we falsely term the 
 realities of the world. We try to think that earth is nothing, 
 that heaven is all ; but when we have toiled for years in the 
 pursuit cf wealth, or pleasure, or fame, how shall we in a 
 moment persuade ourselves that they are worthless ? Like the 
 fisherman in the eastern tale, we have voluntarily opened the 
 casket in which the mighty spirit of delusion was encased, and 
 that which seemed at first but a faint mist of evil has gathered 
 itself up into a giant form, and made itself our lord ; and when 
 we would fain command it back to its original nothingness, we 
 find that our will is powerless to enforce obedience. That 
 Blanche retained her earnestness and sincerity of purpose was
 
 94 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 not owing to any particularly advantageous circumstances ; life 
 at Rutherford Castle was, in its exterior, what life is in almost 
 all places where there is no one great business or occupation to 
 mould it into some definite form : there were rather late break- 
 fasts, mornings seemingly frittered away in light reading, music, 
 letter-writing, and not very profitable conversation ; afternoons 
 devoted to some drive or ride ; seven o'clock dinners, and idle, 
 talking, musical evenings. What was the purport of all that 
 was said or done, no one seemed to inquire. Lord Rutherford, 
 indeed, spent much of his time in his study, and busied himself 
 in managing his estates. His object was a definite one ; yet 
 he was the only person, except Blanche, who appeared dis- 
 satisfied with it. After the first excitement of his sister-in-law's 
 arrival was over he seemed inclined to sink back into the re- 
 served and even contemptuous mood which had occasionally 
 shown itself before when he was alone with Blanche. Lady 
 Charlton's vivacity indeed often roused him, and brought out 
 flashes of brilliant wit and quick observation ; but he soon re- 
 lapsed again into silence, — in Sir Hugh's presence especially ; 
 though, fortunately for his temper and his peace, the gout 
 lingered much longer than was expected, and kept Sir Hugh in 
 a great measure a prisoner to his room. When he was absent, 
 the earl would occasionally read aloud, or enter into conversa- 
 tions with Lady Charlton, which, as they seemed to possess a 
 power to engage his attention and give him pleasure, were 
 eagerly listened to by Blanche. 
 
 They were certainly very agreeable, full of anecdote and in- 
 formation. Blanche's opinion of her aunt's talents and power 
 of mind, and even of her principles, increased daily. For Lady 
 Charlton never gave way to the earl's implied doubts of good- 
 ness, or clever sarcasm upon things and people whom Blanche 
 had learned to reverence. She spoke openly, and in a measure 
 earnestly, upon all serious topics ; blamed what was wrong, and 
 approved of what was right, and when left alone with Blanche 
 sympathised with any indication of her deeper feelings, more 
 particularly when they were in any way connected with her 
 mother. Blanche was beginning to lean upon and trust her, at 
 times even to think that she might partly supply Mrs Howard's 
 place as a guide in her daily actions. They were very different, 
 different in a way which Blanche felt better than she could de- 
 scribe ; but their ideas seemed the same. Lady Charlton was 
 more cheerful, more full of life and hope ; she had more interest
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 95 
 
 In passing events than Mrs Howard ; bat they liked the same 
 people, approved of the same books, professed the same motives 
 Blanche could not have spoken to her aunt upon anything whicl 
 immediately involved her own most sacred thoughts, for such 
 confidence can scarcely be given except to one person, and Lady 
 Charlton was too recent a friend, and too lively and light-hearted 
 to offer occasions for alluding to them ; but in all minor points 
 she seemed a safe counsellor, and one whom the earl was par- 
 ticularly pleased that Blanche should apply to. 
 
 ' I wish you knew her,' wrote Blanche to Mrs Howard, in one 
 of the weekly letters, which no occupation was ever allowed to 
 stop. ' I should feel more certain then of my own opinion about 
 her. Perhaps you will think it is not right to sit in judgment 
 upon one who is so much my superior in age, and so nearly 
 related to me ; but I do not know how to help it. I think you 
 can scarcely imagine how entirely I am forced to form my own 
 decisions, and act upon my own will. The last few months, 
 since we parted, have worked a marvellous change. I am 
 mistress of the castle, and forced to order and arrange, and 
 treated with a deference which at first completely puzzled me. 
 Papa seems to delight that it should be so. He will never 
 allow the least opposition ; he calls me queen in jest, and when 
 I beg him to tell me what he wishes for himself, a cloud comes 
 over him, and he insists that he has no will but mine ; and yet 
 to others he is so different. This is not what ought to be, is 
 it ? It frightens me : I long for some one to remind me of my 
 duties ; to scold me, and tell me when I do wrong — which in- 
 deed is every hour in the day. I wish my aunt would do it. 
 She has such very high principles, such good notions about 
 everything. I am sure she must perpetually see that I am not 
 acting rightly, but she never hints at its being possible. I do 
 make her give me advice in common things, receiving visitors, 
 arranging for dinner-parties, and so on ; but it is all done 
 laughingly, with a half apology, as if she had no reason to sup- 
 pose I did not know all that she does. What I most wish just 
 now is to have some plan for the arrangement of my time. 1 
 have thought a good deal about it lately ; for the kind of life I 
 lead at present is exceedingly unsatisfactory, and yet I cannot 
 tell how to alter it. If we have visitors, I must attend to them ; 
 and really that takes up more time than any one not on the spot 
 would imagine. My aunt constantly says that she will not in- 
 terrupt me if she thinks I have anything to do : but then she
 
 96 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 begins talking, and I am bound in courtesy to listen ; and very 
 willingly, I must own, for she is the most agreeable person I 
 ever met with. Anecdotes she has to bring forward on every 
 occasion, and they are never wearying, they are told so quickly, 
 and with such spirit. She quite understands giving one resting- 
 places, and entering into anything one says in reply. Really 
 the hours pass by, and I have not the least idea that they are 
 gone. Yet they are not satisfactory to look back upon. Then, 
 if my aunt is not with me, Adelaide and Maude are ; and 
 Adelaide is like a butterfly, flying from one pursuit to another, 
 and calling upon me to follow her; and Maude — I meant to have 
 written a great deal about her, but I must not to-day : if 1 
 once begin I shall certainly not leave off in time. She interests 
 me though, that I must say ; and frightens me too. We had a 
 little quarrel the other day, a very tiny one, but still sufficient 
 to make me feel what she might be if she were offended. I am 
 afraid I am very proud : she rather ordered me, and my spirit 
 rebelled, and I showed that I was annoyed. I thought perhaps 
 she would have been angry with me a long time ; but instead 
 of that, she came up to me afterwards, the first moment we were 
 alone, and gave me a kiss, so kind ! it made me ten times more 
 vexed with myself than I was before. Yet the next moment she 
 was just like her old self, and I do not feel I have advanced in 
 the least with her. All this is sadly wandering from -my first 
 subject, but when I write to you I always do wander : so many 
 things come to my mind which I long to say. You will under- 
 stand though that I lead a very unsettled, idle life, and that 
 Eleanor leads a very useful, busy one ; and when we meet to 
 compare notes I become discontented with myself, and long to 
 do better, but do not know how to set about it. My aunt said 
 she would go with me to visit the poor people, and I know she 
 would, if she could find a leisure day ; but there is always some 
 engagement. Poor Susannah has been very much neglected in 
 consequence. Eleanor has promised to go when she can, but 
 Dr Wentworth trusted her particularly to me. She sent me a 
 message the other day, asking to see me. You see I tell you 
 all my faults, as I used to do in the happy old times : some- 
 times — is it wrong to say so ? — I fancy they were happier than 
 these. At any rate, I know that I never went to bed then with 
 the same burden of unfulfilled duties upon my conscience. Some 
 rules, however, I can keep, and some things I hope I do not 
 forget. I can never be sufficiently thankful that I was con-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 97 
 
 firmed when I was. Preparation would have been so much 
 more difficult here, and I think I might have gone on in an un- 
 settled way, fancying that confirmation would be a new starting- 
 point, and work some great change in itself. Whereas now I 
 feel that all has been done for me which I could expect, and 
 that if 1 do not advance steadily, I must go back without any 
 prospect of being roused and warned again. Still I am uncom- 
 fortable and anxious. The very fact of bringing my present 
 mode of life into a definite form by writing about it, makes it 
 assume a more serious aspect. I am sure it must be very 
 faulty in some way ; and what will it be when I go to London ?' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE answer to this letter brought a sad disappointment to 
 Blanche. The continued illness of Mrs Howard's niece 
 made her anticipate the probability of going abroad, and would 
 at any rate interfere with the visit to Rutherford, which had so 
 long been promised. Blanche had not realised before how 
 much she had lived upon the thought of this visit, — how en- 
 tirely she had looked forward to it as the means of making Mrs 
 Howard acquainted with the fears and uncertainties which she 
 had never yet found courage to mention openly. A week spent 
 together would have sufficed to show the loneliness of mind, — 
 the absence of sympathy, — the uncongeniality between herself 
 and her father upon the one most important point, which caused 
 her daily grief. There would have been no need of words : 
 Mrs Howard would have felt and understood all. Now that 
 sinking, decaying isolation of heart must still remain, unless she 
 could explain. But what was there to explain ? What had 
 she to say ? — the loved, petted, idolised daughter of a man in 
 whom the world agreed to see no fault except pride, — why was 
 she not happy ? 
 
 '■ Read it, Eleanor,' she said, putting the letter into her 
 friend's hand, as they met that same afternoon at the parson- 
 age, whilst tears in spite of herself rose to her eyes. ' There 
 is not a shadow of hope for months, — probably not before next 
 year.' 
 
 Eleanor glanced at the full sheet. ' Am I to read it all ? ' 
 
 G
 
 98 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' If you will : it is in answer to mine. But I have scarcely 
 thought of the advice in it yet.' 
 
 Eleanor took the letter, and Blanche walked up and down the 
 gravel path, and very soon afterwards- Mrs Wentworth joined 
 her. Blanche could not conceal that she was out of spirits ; and 
 there was real kindness in the tone in which Mrs Wentworth 
 addressed her, with a regret for the unpleasant news which she 
 had only just heard. Poor Blanche was always very alive to 
 sympathy. The tears, which had only glistened before, fell fast, 
 and Mrs Wentworth was touched by her distress ; and opening 
 the French window of a small room which fronted the flower- 
 garden, begged her to go in and seat herself, and be alone if 
 she liked it. 'It was her own little room/ she said ; ' and no 
 one would come near to disturb her.' 
 
 Blanche was only too willing to hide herself from observation. 
 She expected Mrs Wentworth to follow her, but she did not ; 
 and Blanche leant back on the sofa, and for a time indulged her 
 own sad, disappointed fancies. When she at last raised her 
 eyes, it was to rest them upon an object which at once withdrew 
 her thoughts from the present trial, and sent them far back into 
 the past. On one side of the fireplace hung a small painting, 
 the subject of which she recognised in an instant. It was her 
 mother's likeness ; but how different from the subdued, sorrow- 
 stricken countenance which dwelt in her memory as the only 
 true resemblance of the lovely Countess of Rutherford. The 
 picture before her represented a young lady, who could scarcely, 
 so it seemed, have passed the age of twenty, standing on the 
 steps of the castle, dressed in a riding-habit, and caressing a 
 splendid horse, which she was evidently prepared to mount. 
 The face was bright, even mirthful ; the eyes sparkling with 
 expectation ; the mouth joyous in its expression of happiness. 
 There was no striving for effect in the picture ; nothing but the 
 simple representation of what must actually have been wit- 
 nessed. Blanche felt, as she looked upon it, that the artist who 
 could so have portrayed her mother must have drawn her as she 
 actually stood, without forethought or design. Five years after- 
 wards, that fair, young creature had become the pale, serious, 
 care-worn woman, whose beauty was over-shadowed by a fixed, 
 it might almost have been called a stern melancholy ; and 
 whose fascination was the influence of that purity of mind which 
 grief has prepared for heaven. 
 
 The picture, and the thoughts that it called forth, struck a
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 99 
 
 chord in the mind of Lady Blanche, which at that moment was 
 peculiarly, though painfully sensitive. If her mother had been 
 spared, not even Mrs Howard's friendship would have been 
 needed. And again an undefined doubt, followed by a longing 
 for a truer insight into that mother's history, arose within her. 
 Her attention was so engrossed that Mrs Wentworth knocked at 
 the door without being answered, and Blanche started when she 
 came in, as if the privacy of her own apartment had been in- 
 truded upon. The attitude in which she was standing, leaning 
 upon the mantelpiece and gazing upon the picture, told at once 
 the subject of her thoughts. 
 
 ' I did not know you had it,' she said, in a tone of gentle 
 reproach, as Mrs Wentworth came up to her. Mrs Wentworth 
 appeared at a loss for a reply. ' And it must be like her,' con- 
 tinued Blanche, still with the same manner, as if she was vexed 
 at having long been deprived of a great pleasure. 
 
 1 It was like her once, — for a short time,' said Mrs Went- 
 worth, her voice sinking at the last words, as it so often did 
 when referring to persons and events connected with other days. 
 
 ' I feel it must have been like,' repeated Blanche ; ' more 
 like than the bust at the castle ; more like than this,' and she 
 unfastened her brooch. 
 
 ' It is not the face by which she was most known,' said Mrs 
 Wentworth, rather indifferently. ' I am sorry you have seen it ; 
 it will only disturb your ideas.' 
 
 ' No, no !' exclaimed Blanche. ' I should be so glad if I 
 could know her as she was always ; as a child, — as a woman, — • 
 as what I am now,' she added, with a faint smile. 
 
 A slight contraction was visible in Mrs Wentworth's forehead, 
 the effect, perhaps, of some sudden pain ; but she answered in 
 her usual undisturbed manner : — ' There is no picture of Lady 
 Rutherford as she was at your age, my dear Lady Blanche. 
 This was taken three weeks after her marriage.' 
 
 ' And for you ? — was it her gift to you ? ' inquired Blanche, 
 with eagerness. 
 
 ' No, not her gift. It was ' Mrs Wentworth paused, 
 
 coughed, and then added quickly, ' it was the earl's once.' 
 
 ' And he parted with it ? ' exclaimed Blanche. ' Oh, Mrs 
 Wentworth ! even to you ! ' 
 
 ' I loved her,' was the reply, uttered sharply and bitterly ; and 
 Blanche in an instant reproached herself for her words. 
 
 f Yes, indeed, I know you did. I know you were her great
 
 ioo THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 friend. Forgive me : you had of course a claim. But is there 
 no copy, — no other picture like it, taken at that time ? Three 
 weeks after her marriage ! How happy she looks ! — my own 
 sweet mother ! ' and Blanche drew near with the impulse to 
 press her lips to the cold, lifeless figure. She checked herself, 
 however Mrs Wentworth's calmness seemed a reproof for 
 indulging anything like excited feeling. ' Perhaps/ she said, 
 turning to Mrs Wentworth, with a smile of singular attraction, 
 so full it was of subdued eagerness, and softness, and hope, — 
 ' perhaps, some day, if I might be permitted, I would ask to 
 have it copied. It would be a great treasure. You will under- 
 stand,' she added ; and in her earnestness she took Mrs Went- 
 worth's hand, as if to entreat by action as well as by word. 
 
 To her surprise, Mrs Wentworth hesitated. She would, if 
 it were possible ; — anything which could be done should be, 
 Lady Blanche might be certain of that. Artists were very rarely 
 in the neighbourhood ; but it might be possible, just possible. 
 
 Blanche drew back her hand, — she began her reply proudly, 
 and it was an apology ; she had not known that she was asking 
 such a favour : — then conscience reproached her for pride shown 
 to her mother's early friend, and she tried to alter her manner. 
 Mrs Wentworth stood passively by her, listening politely. An 
 unpleasant silence followed what Blanche said, — a stiffness and 
 restraint on both sides ; but it was broken in upon by Mrs 
 Wentworth. 
 
 ' The original is so invaluable to me,' she began. 
 
 Blanche interrupted her : — ' You do not think I could wish 
 for that ? No, I assure you, not for a moment.' 
 
 ' There are associations connected with it,' pursued Mrs Went- 
 worth, quietly ; ' no copy would possess them. I was present 
 when the picture was taken. I watched its progress from the 
 commencement. The first sketch was made on the countess's 
 birthday — she was just twenty. It was done by an amateur, a 
 friend of Lord Rutherford's, who was staying at the castle. The 
 countess had no idea of his intention; but I was aware of it, and 
 assisted him. I kept her, that is, in conversation.' 
 
 ' And it was my father's ? ' said Blanche, musingly. 
 
 ' Yes : ' and again Mrs Wentworth's manner grew very con- 
 strained ; and, after a short pause, she said awkwardly, ' I do 
 
 jiot think the earl would like to see it ; it might remind him ' ■ 
 
 Blanche waited some moments for the continuation of the sen- 
 tence ; when it came, it was so hurried that she could scarcely
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 101 
 
 comprehend it : — ' It might remind him,' repeated Mrs Went- 
 worth, ' that is, it would certainly bring to his recollection ; — I 
 think it might annoy him to be spoken to about it/ were the 
 concluding words. 
 
 Annoy ! what a strange, cold expression ! But Mrs Went- 
 worth was incomprehensible; and so different on this day to what 
 she generally was, so frightened apparently out of her usual self- 
 possession ! Blanche felt quite bewildered. She turned from the 
 picture, and saying that she was now quite rested and would 
 rejoin Eleanor, was preparing to go when Mrs Wentworth 
 detained her. 
 
 ' It is not pleasant to me to part in this way,' she said more 
 freely; ' to appear unkind, as I must do. Might I hope that you 
 would excuse it — that you would make allowance for painful re- 
 collections ? I think you will,' she added, looking kindly at 
 Blanche ; ' for your mother's sake I think you will excuse any 
 unintentional awkwardness in one who loved her very dearly.' 
 
 Blanche's displeasure vanished in an instant. ' My mother's 
 friend must always be privileged,' she said, putting her hand 
 into that of Mrs Wentworth ; ' even if there were anything to 
 excuse; but, indeed, — of course, I can understand.' The mutual 
 pressure of the hand was affectionate ; but Blanche was relieved 
 when she stepped into the open air : and she had not forgotten, 
 — there had been no second offer of procuring a copy of the 
 picture. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 * "\ 7"ISITORS in the drawing-room, my lady,' were the words 
 
 V which greeted Blanche, when she and Eleanor reached 
 the castle, with the hope of making some arrangements for 
 spending the afternoon more profitably than had seemed possible 
 of late. 
 
 ' Friends of my aunt's, I suppose,' said Blanche, speaking to 
 Eleanor in an under-tone. ' Is Lady Charlton there?' she in- 
 quired aloud. 
 
 ' Yes, my lady : Lady Charlton and Miss Adelaide. The 
 carriage has been ordered away.' 
 
 Blanche went into the house. ' We need not appear, I
 
 io2 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 imagine/ she said to Eleanor. ' I am supposed to be out ; and 
 if we once put ourselves in the way, there is an end to all our 
 plans for poor Susannah.' Eleanor agreed that there was no 
 absolute necessity ; but she stopped at the foot of the staircase, 
 and wondered who the visitor could be. 
 
 ' We shall be waylaid, undoubtedly/ said Blanche, trying to 
 hasten her. 
 
 ' Hush! who is that speaking?' asked Eleanor, listening. 
 
 ' Sir Hugh scolding Pearson, or Pearson scolding Sir Hugh/ 
 said Blanche, laughing. ' Really, Eleanor, you are determined 
 to be caught.' Blanche spoke in jest, but her words might pos- 
 sibly have been true, for just then the drawing-room door 
 opened, and a number of voices were heard. 
 
 ' We shall be seen, if we attempt to go up-stairs now/ said 
 Eleanor, decidedly; but she had no one to hear her observation, 
 for Blanche had already escaped to her room. She sat there for 
 some little time very patiently. Eleanor, of course, had waited 
 the one moment too long and been detained; it was provoking, 
 but there was no help for it, and Blanche took out Mrs Howard's 
 letter in order to occupy the intervening time. It was curiously 
 appropriate to that precise moment. So much of it was upon the 
 subject of daily duties, daily interruptions, and the spirit in which 
 they should be borne. 
 
 ' I am not in the least surprised at your complaints of desul- 
 toriness, my dear child/ began Mrs Howard. ' All persons 
 situated as you are must in a certain way be desultory, or, more 
 correctly, they must I suppose appear to be so ; for it does not 
 follow that you should be so really. When you laid down your 
 strict rules, before you went away, I was convinced in my own 
 mind that you would find a difficulty in carrying them out ; but 
 I did not like to dishearten you, since a plan of life is in itself 
 good, even necessary, if we wish to discipline our minds pro- 
 perly. The great mischief of such plans is when the fulfilment 
 of them is too rigidly insisted upon, and is raised into a virtue 
 in itself, instead of being considered as merely a stepping-stone. 
 However, I need not descant upon the danger of too much re- 
 gularity ; your difficulty seems to lie quite in the other direction. 
 Naturally it would be so, for you cannot possibly be entirely 
 mistress of your own time, and you certainly are bound in duty 
 to consider the comfort of your guests before your own. But 
 there must be a limit to every duty, humanly speaking, or it 
 will encroach upon another, and become a fault. And this
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 103 
 
 limit, I think, is to be found by having a true sense of our posi- 
 tion, not only in life but in our families. As a daughter, you 
 are of course bound to obey ; but, as the mistress of a house- 
 hold, you arc equally bound to take the lead, and to set an ex- 
 ample of order and strictness. I doubt if you arc likely to 
 remember this sufficiently. Your mode of life must in a great 
 measure give the tone to your whole household, and one of the 
 most important features in all families, especially in one which 
 like your own possesses influence from rank and wealth, is that 
 it should be under subservience to a law of duty and not of 
 pleasure. I do not mean that it is possible to make laws for 
 every hour, or every individual ; but it should never be left in 
 doubt that there are claims which must be attended to ; em- 
 ployments which are never to be neglected except for some very 
 obvious reason. If your mother had been spared, these respon- 
 sibilities would not have been yours as yet ; but you are pecu- 
 liarly circumstanced, and there are duties incumbent upon you 
 which seldom fall to the lot of persons of your age. I wish I 
 could give you my ideas more in detail, for I am afraid I shall 
 not satisfy you ; but what I mean is something of this kind, — 
 I suppose you breakfast late, but that need not prevent you 
 from rising early. If you set the example, the servants must in 
 a measure follow it, so one great temptation in an easy life will 
 be checked. I think you would find it useful not to shut your- 
 self up entirely in your room, but to let your servants see what 
 your habits are — as example is better than reproof, and indeed 
 reproof can scarcely, I imagine, be in the catalogue of your 
 duties at present. Then with regard to your mornings — you 
 intended, I know, to study regularly ; and certainly it seems to 
 me that you ought to do so. Could you not manage to give a 
 certain fixed time to your aunt and cousins, and any other 
 guests, directly after breakfast, and then let it be understood 
 that you wish to have an hour or two to yourself? I hardly 
 think you would give offence, and your absence would by de- 
 grees be taken as a matter of course. Perhaps, also, you might 
 be able to arrange to practise with your cousins, as you say they 
 they are both musical ; but then, my dear Blanche, you must 
 take the lead. If your cousin Adelaide likes what you call a 
 butterfly life, it does not at all follow that you are to humour 
 her : and though she may be some years older than yourself, 
 that will not prevent your being of great use in keeping her 
 steadily to one object, if you show you are determined to be
 
 104 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 steady yourself. So, again, I would beg of you if possible to 
 decide upon seeing the poor people on fixed days ; and, when 
 these days come, say you have an engagement, and make 
 any plans for drives, visits, &c, for your friends, independent 
 of yourself. Your reading also may be a great help to you as 
 regards system and regularity, if you can avoid the temptation 
 of beginning every new book that is thrown in your way — a 
 temptation which, I assure you, I can quite sympathise with. 
 We cannot always be studying history and metaphysics, but 
 when we do indulge ourselves in light reading it should be for 
 some specified reason — at certain times, and under certain 
 limitations. I really believe that half the mischief of novels, 
 those I mean which are innocent, arises from their being so 
 enticing that we are induced to read them at wrong times. It 
 may seem a very slight fault to skim half a dozen pages more 
 when duty calls us another way ; but I am sure it injures the 
 conscience and untones the mind. If we can read a very in- 
 teresting book up to a certain moment, and then resolutely close 
 it because we have something else to do, the relaxation can 
 scarcely have done us harm. I am saying nothing about higher 
 rules and motives, because we have talked of them so often be- 
 fore, and I am sure from your letter that you have not forgotten 
 them. 
 
 ' This constant self-discipline, no doubt, requires energy and 
 watchfulness, but what is to be done without them ? Especially 
 what can be done by persons situated as you are, having scarcely 
 any external restraints upon their inclinations ? You must be 
 a law to yourself if you wish to avoid that wretched frittering 
 away of life which is the misery of hundreds of persons of your 
 age at the present moment. 
 
 ' All I have said is of course subject to one proviso — that 
 your father should not object. If he were to insist, or even 
 evidently to desire, that you should give yourself up entirely to 
 your aunt and cousins, you can but submit : only here again 
 you would find a law, and therefore a satisfaction. It is not 
 what we do, but why we do it, that is of consequence. How 
 often we say to ourselves, speaking of things of this world, " It 
 does not signify, it is all in the day's work!" — and so, neither, 
 does it signify in the concerns of another world, whether we are 
 called upon to rule a kingdom or pick up stones from the road, 
 if only what we do is work — work that shall turn to account in 
 the reckoning of the long clay of life ; work for Him to whom 
 nothing is great and therefore nothing can be little/
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 705 
 
 Blanche refolded her letter, and sat for some lime thinking 
 over it. She could not at once fully enter into Mrs Howard's 
 views ; or, at least, she could not at once see that they were 
 practicable. Yet they had given her an idea, a principle which 
 might materially assist her in the little difficulties that often 
 perplexed her. Blanche's mind was resolute and decisive. 
 This was not generally supposed ; but those who were in the 
 habit of interpreting her conduct, too often did so without the 
 least knowledge of the real clue to it. Lady Charlton saw her 
 amiable, agreeable, and attractive, and called her ' a sweet 
 girl ; ' and Mrs Wentworth understood, from conversation with 
 Eleanor, that she was very much fascinated by Lady Charlton, 
 and accustomed to follow out her cousins' wishes, and in con- 
 sequence was likely to lead a desultory, objectless life ; and 
 supposed therefore that she was too gentle to be strong-minded. 
 Lord Rutherford, indeed, understood her better ; perhaps, if he 
 had not done so, he never could have given her his full affec- 
 tion, for, like her, he required respect to bring out his feelings, 
 though it was respect for the intellect, not for the heart ; and 
 one of the most satisfactory discoveries he had made in the pro- 
 gress of their intercourse, was that she could have an opinion 
 and a will of her own. But, even to him, it would have been 
 a matter of surprise to witness the immediate effect of Mrs 
 Howard's advice. He could not have understood the working 
 of a mind which obeyed conscience as it were instinctively, and 
 to which the bare possibility of a duty suggested an instant en- 
 deavour for its performance. Blanche required only to perceive 
 that Mrs Howard was right in her views— and of this a very little 
 consideration convinced her — and then her thoughts turned to the 
 practical mode of carrying them out, quickly, sincerely, without 
 delay, or reservation, or excuse, and in perfect simplicity ; not 
 at all considering it necessary to guard against observation, or to 
 hide anything which she intended to do ; but supposing other 
 persons would regard her duties, as she did herself, as matters 
 of course. She had already solved several difficult questions, 
 when Eleanor's quick step was heard in the gallery, and scarcely 
 pausing to knock at the door she entered the room with the ex- 
 clamation — 
 
 ' My dear Blanche ! I am so — so sorry ; I really am vexed 
 to have kept you, but ; 
 
 ' But if people will put themselves in the way they must ex- 
 pect to be caught,' said Blanche, laughing ; ' however, we can
 
 lo6 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' No, I beg your pardon, that was what I came to say/ con. 
 tinued Eleanor, hurriedly. ' I am afraid we can't go this after- 
 noon. Lady Charlton wishes me so very much to stay: they are 
 going out — a large party : she quite pressed my joining them. 
 I am to drive with your cousin Adelaide.' 
 
 Blanche could not conceal her vexation. ' And does my aunt 
 expect me to go, too ?' she inquired. 
 
 ' Oh ! no ; I assure you, I was very careful. I did not men- 
 tion your name. No one thinks you are in the house. They 
 suppose I had come to the castle to look for you ; and now I 
 have left them with the excuse that I must write a note to 
 mamma to tell her what I intend doing.' 
 
 ' And shall you write ?' asked Blanche. 
 
 ' Why, no ; upon second thoughts, I don't see there is a 
 necessity. I was to spend the afternoon with you, but whether 
 I go for a walk or a drive must be a question of indifference.' 
 The latter part of the sentence was spoken in that tone of deci- 
 sion which is sometimes used to conceal a doubt. Blanche, 
 without making any observation in reply, put aside the writing 
 materials which she was placing for Eleanor's use. 
 
 ' Why will you not go with us, Blanche ?' continued Eleanor. 
 ' Why can you not wait till to-morrow ?' 
 
 ' Because to-morrow will be like to-day,' said Blanche ; ' it 
 will have its own duties.' 
 
 ' But I could walk with you then •. I promise that I will not 
 put myself in the way of temptation again.' 
 
 ' Then it was temptation ! ' said Blanche, a little reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 ' Perhaps so ; it might have been : but I see no harm in it. 
 Whether you go alone to Susannah, or whether I am with you, 
 cannot make much difference to her.' 
 
 ' But it does to me,' said Blanche, unable to repress a feel- 
 ing of vexation that Eleanor should prefer a drive with a party 
 of comparative strangers to a walk with herself. 
 
 Eleanor laughed, and declared that Blanche must be jealous 
 of her cousin Adelaide ; but there was self-dissatisfaction be- 
 neath her assumed indifference, and she brought forward a 
 number of excuses for her determination. ' Lady Charlton 
 pressed it so much,' she said, ' it was almost impossible to 
 refuse : in fact, I suspect she wants me as a chaperonc. They 
 had not settled how it was all to be arranged. Charles was 
 there, striving hard for the honour of driving your cousin him-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 107 
 
 self ; but Lady Charlton had evidently set her face against it. 
 So, you see, I may be useful.' 
 
 Blanche did her best to enter into Eleanor's gaiety, but she 
 could not succeed very well ; for, as she began to think of what 
 was to be done, she saw that all her plans were disarranged ; 
 and Eleanor soon perceived it also. 
 
 At the moment of accepting the invitation to join Lady 
 Charlton's party, she had not remembered that Blanche could 
 not well walk as far as Susannah's cottage alone. ' However, 
 the next day would do just as well,' she said, ' and Blanche had 
 better make up her mind to give up duty for that afternoon, 
 and go with the rest.' 
 
 This Blanche declined ; since she was not wanted she pre- 
 ferred having the time to herself. ' I suppose you could not 
 send an excuse to my aunt,' she suggested. 
 
 But Eleanor negatived the idea instantly ; and after again 
 begging Blanche to forgive her, and promising to behave better 
 for the future, hastened away. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 BLANCHE stood at the window, watching the party, which 
 was collecting in front of the castle. She saw Eleanor 
 join them, and converse a little with Adelaide ; and, after some 
 delay, they both seated themselves in the pony carriage, and 
 drove off — closely followed by Mr Wentworth on horseback. 
 Blanche could almost have repented having refused to accom- 
 pany them ; since there was no apparent obstacle in the way. 
 But she felt that she had done what was best for her own mind, 
 and there was great pleasure in the quietness and solitude now 
 so unusual ; and when the rumbling of the wheels and the echo 
 of the horses' hoofs died away in the distance, she lingered still 
 by the open window to enjoy the unbroken silence within the 
 house, and the low, soothing, mingled sounds of nature with- 
 out. They are rare and precious moments, which are thus 
 snatched from the whirl of life and spent in stillness and alone. 
 Even when they are not devoted to direct meditation, and 
 appear too fleeting to be productive of good, they yet tend to 
 give us a knowledge of the realitie which encompass us. By
 
 io3 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 the depth of their solemnity and repose, they remind us that 
 beneath the surface of this weary, working existence, there is 
 another world — another, and an enduring life ; — imaged in the 
 unchanging sky and the returning sun, and the ever-renewed 
 beauty of the trees and flowers, and the steadfastness of the 
 everlasting hills ; and, if our hearts are open to the truth, they 
 may sometimes teach us to remember, that as in far-off years 
 the glorious temple rose silently in the city of Jerusalem, neither 
 axe nor hammer nor tool giving warning or notice of the work, 
 so the more glorious temple — the Church of the Living God — ■ 
 is at this moment rising unperceived in the midst of a tumul- 
 tuous world ; each stone quarried and fashioned by the sharp 
 edge of sorrow and the keen stroke of adversity, until, perfected 
 and prepared, it is fitted for that destined position which shall be 
 the place of its rest for eternity. 
 
 Thoughts something like these filled the mind of Blanche as 
 she sat alone, enjoying the unwonted quietness of the summer's 
 afternoon. She had early learned to look upon what is, not 
 what seems to be ; but, during the last few weeks, the truth 
 had been at times overlooked. Notwithstanding the dissatis- 
 faction expressed to Mrs Howard, she had found much enjoy- 
 ment in the society of Lady Charlton and her cousins ; perhaps 
 too much, for it had unconsciously relaxed the strict, watchful 
 tone of her character. She perceived this now. Mrs Howard's 
 letter had given the first warning, and this short interval of 
 reflection repeated it. Again she reverted to the question of 
 duty, but less practically than before. There is a close connec- 
 tion between the mystery of what we see and the mystery of 
 what we are ; and when Blanche looked upon the glorious 
 landscape beneath her, and the immensity of the sky above her, 
 she was carried away far beyond the immediate consideration cf 
 daily pursuits into thoughts and speculations for which no 
 answer could be found. Metaphysical difficulties suggested 
 themselves ; questions upon the origin of duty — its binding 
 power — the irremediable consequences of its neglect — the very 
 fact of its existence, involving the possibility of evil ; and this 
 again opening a new path for the reason to travel, till it stood 
 upon the brink of a precipice and recoiled shuddering from its 
 own presumption. There are many amongst the young whom 
 such thoughts harass, when it is little suspected ; — many, who are 
 armed with no shield of faith for their protection. We may well 
 pray for them, for their peril is great !
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. log 
 
 ' Is that you, Blanche?' exclaimed a voice from below, as 
 Blanche still stood at the window. 
 
 Blanche started. ' Maude ! alone ! I thought I saw you 
 with the rest.' 
 
 ' No, thank you ; I am not a gregarious animal. And such 
 a set, too, as they were ; — just fitted for Adelaide. But come 
 down, I want you.' 
 
 Blanche delayed. She had not settled what she was going to 
 do ; but certainly, she had no intention of spending the after- 
 noon with Maude. 
 
 ' Come, you must come,' repeated Maude, impatiently; ' we 
 will have a German lesson. I promised you one. We will sit 
 upon the south terrace ; it is deliciously warm.' 
 
 Blanche went to another window, from which the terrace could 
 be seen. It certainly was a most inviting spot, with the bright 
 slanting rays of the sun upon it, and the flowers bordering it 
 radiant in beauty ; whilst, below, were contrasted the deep 
 shadows of the trees on the bank, and the glittering lines of 
 light which flickered on the sides of the distant hills. She 
 paused for a moment to consider, and it seemed right to go ; 
 —right, since her afternoon was interrupted, to take advantage 
 of Maude's offer. 
 
 ' We will read,' said Maude, holding up a book ; ' only make 
 haste.' 
 
 Blanche threw a shawl round her and ran down-stairs. 
 Maude met her at the hall-door. She looked quite satisfied, — 
 an unusual thing for her, — and Blanche was glad that she had 
 assented. 
 
 ' I fancied I was quite alone,' observed Maude, as she sat 
 down on a bench in the shade. ' Why did you not go with the 
 rest?' 
 
 ' I was not asked,' replied Blanche ; ' that is,' observing 
 Maude's look of surprise, ' I did not put myself in the way of 
 being asked. I meant to have gone out with Eleanor.' 
 
 ' Charity visiting, I suppose ? ' said Maude with a slight 
 sneer. ' Well ! you are very good, Blanche ; but, depend upon 
 it, it will be better for you to spend the afternoon in reading 
 " Egmont" with me.' 
 
 ' " Egmont ! " Goethe's " Egmont ! " ' exclaimed Blanche 
 hastily, and with doubt. 
 
 ' Yes. Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Goethe ! ' again repeated Blanche.
 
 no THE EARUS DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Well ! ' and Maude looked up almost angrily. ' What is 
 the harm of Goethe ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know myself. I have never read anything of his.' 
 
 ' Only the name frightens you. Now, my dear Blanche, do 
 for once have an opinion of your own. Don't be a Quixote 
 and convert a windmill into a giant, and then set to work to 
 fight it.' 
 
 ' But the world is the Quixote,' said Blanche, laughing ; ' not 
 I. I only go by what I hear.' 
 
 ' The world ! that is some few bigoted individuals who con- 
 demn every creed which is not cut and squared after their own 
 pattern. Your father does not say so, I am sure.' 
 
 ' No; he has often promised to read part of Goethe with me. 
 Only part,' she added, laying her hand upon the book, as Maude 
 with a triumphant smile opened it. 
 
 * " Egmont " is a part — a very grand part, perfectly unexcep- 
 tionable.' 
 
 ' Are you sure ? ' said Blanche. ' I think ' — and she raised 
 her eyes to her cousin's face with an expression of child-like 
 confidence, — ' I think I might trust you.' 
 
 The sneer which still rested upon Maude's lips vanished 
 directly. She turned to Blanche, and said eagerly, ' Thank 
 you ; yes, of course, you may trust. Whatever I might read 
 myself, I could never ask you to listen to a word which might 
 offend you.' 
 
 ' But Goethe,' said Blanche, as if speaking aloud her own 
 thoughts, ' there is such a prejudice against him — there must 
 be something wrong — something dangerous.' 
 
 ' Dangerous ! absurd folly ! ' and Maude turned the leaves 
 quickly in her irritation, exclaiming, as she went on, ' The fear 
 of weak, narrow-minded cowards— false to their own conviction 
 — envious of a great mind. Blanche, you must not be one of 
 them.' 
 
 ' I hope I should be always true to my own convictions,' 
 answered Blanche ; ' but it is very possible that you may call 
 them narrow-minded. I think you would,' she added, boldly. 
 
 Maude fixed upon her a steady, penetrating gaze, and said 
 slowly, ' I like that ; better be narrow-minded and firm, than 
 narrow-minded and weak. You shall read " Egmont." ' 
 
 ' Tell me its faults first,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' Faults ! it has none. It is the most wonderfully true, 
 noble, inspiriting — but. you are a coward, after all ; ' and she
 
 THE EARLS DA UGHTER. 1 1 1 
 
 threw down the book and stood gazing over the edge of the 
 terrace. 
 
 Blanche went up to her. ' I hope I am not a coward, 
 Maude ; but we all know the weak points of our own minds. 
 Goethe's works must have something in them which does harm 
 to some persons — I may possibly be one. Tell me if there is 
 anything in " Egmont " which is generally objected to.' 
 
 « By whom ? ' said Maude, sarcastically. ' By Mrs Smith — 
 Brown — White — Green — Black ? ' 
 
 ' By persons whose opinions I am bound to respect.' 
 
 ' By yourself, rather,' exclaimed Maude, impatiently. ' Do 
 forget such folly, Blanche, and judge for yourself. As for the 
 story, it is matter of history ; though with Goethe, it is not 
 history, but actual, breathing reality. It is Egmont as he was, 
 as he lived, and talked, and thought ; with his gallant, chivalric 
 bearing — his openness, generosity, disinterestedness, love of 
 freedom, fearlessness of the world's censure. One must have 
 loved him, — one must have been Clarchen, who died with him.' 
 
 Blanche repeated quickly, ' Died with him ? ' 
 
 1 Yes ; for him — with him ; she loved him too well to survive 
 him.' 
 
 The next words were uttered by Blanche hurriedly, with an 
 effort — ' Who committed suicide, do you mean ? ' 
 
 1 Pshaw ! yet I might have known it, — it is all education. 
 Suicide ! Yes, what people call suicide. She kills herself. 
 You are shocked. What a mistake to have told you ! It is all 
 spoilt now ; but you shall read it still ; and tell me whether 
 Goethe cannot ennoble such a death.' 
 
 Maude put her arm round her cousin to draw her back to the 
 seat, but Blanche resisted. ' I am not afraid to read it,' she 
 said ; ' but it will give me pain.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that pain which is pleasure, — the pain of sympathy 
 and admiration.' 
 
 < That was not what I meant. I am sure I should admire it, 
 but I could not sympathise with it.' 
 
 ' Not with Egmont— not with Clarchen ? ' 
 
 ' Not with suicide,' said Blanche, quietly. 
 
 ' Pooh ! — nonsense ! Why will you harp upon the same sub- 
 ject ? Of course, I do not admire suicide. I allow that it is a 
 crime, per se ; a great crime if you will ; but I do say, and I 
 will always say, that Goethe sanctifies it by the power of his
 
 1 1 2 THE EARLS DA [/GETTER. 
 
 genius ; that such love as Clarchen's is the love of a noble, self- 
 devoting spirit ; that it is beautiful and true love.' 
 
 ' Nc ; no ! ' exclaimed Blanche, eagerly. 
 
 < Not beautiful ! Not true ! Then what is so ? ' and Maude's 
 eyes flashed with irritation. 
 
 ' Love which lives through sorrow,' said Blanche, her voice 
 slightly trembling. ' Not love which dies to escape it.' 
 
 Maude laid down the book which she held in her hand, 
 whilst waiting for a further explanation of. her cousin's ideas, 
 and fixed upon her a cool, patient gaze, which was peculiarly 
 repelling. 
 
 Blanche turned away her eyes and went on, l You asked me 
 once about my notions and theories,' she said, ' and I did not 
 like to tell you ; I am afraid I was wrong, but you must for- 
 give me. I don't think I have what you would call theories ; 
 but I have principles. And since you are kind enough to read 
 with me, and talk to me, I should like you to know them, be- 
 cause then we shall understand each other better. And another 
 reason — they are true principles to me ; and when you talk, it 
 seems as if you were trying to uproot them. But it would be 
 unkind to do so,' she added very earnestly, as she remembered 
 the maze of perplexities in which but a short time before she 
 had been involved, when suffering her thoughts to wander with- 
 out check or guidance. ' Even, if you could succeed, you would 
 only be making me wretched, for they are my hope and comfort 
 — my happiness.' And, in her energy, Blanche clasped her 
 hands, and drew up her slender, graceful figure in an attitude of 
 strength and power, which made the half sneer upon Maude's 
 face melt into a smile of admiration. 
 
 ' And these thoughts and principles are what ? ' asked Maude, 
 patronisingly. 
 
 Blanche pressed her hands more closely together, and still 
 averting her eyes from her cousin, answered, ' They are what you 
 may call narrow-minded prejudices — they are religion.' 
 
 < Religion ! — yes ; certainly ; — extremely right,' said Maude, 
 still in the same manner. ' I hope I am religious too.' 
 Blanche was for an instant distressed and perplexed. 
 ' My dear child ! ' said Maude, speaking in a light playful 
 way, which made Blanche shrink at the recollection of her own 
 enthusiasm ; ' my poor Blanche ! what an excitement you have 
 worked yourself into ! I declare you look quite ill.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 113 
 
 Blanche with difficulty resisted the temptation to run away. 
 < Thank you/ she said ; ' I am not ill. I did not mean to be ex- 
 cited. I merely wished to say to you why I never could agree 
 in your admiration of " Egmont." ; 
 
 * Because of that naughty Clarchen/ observed Maude ; ' but 
 we will forget her ; we will choose Schiller, if you like it, and 
 give up Goethe for the present. By and by, when you have seen 
 a little of the world besides St Ebbe's, and this grim old castle, 
 you will not be so much shocked at him.' 
 
 Blanche drew back from the caress with which these words 
 were about to be accompanied. ' I never can wish that time to 
 come/ she said. ' If it did, I should have learnt to bear with 
 that which my reason, as well as my faith, tells me is utterly 
 false." 
 
 There was a silence of some moments. 
 
 Maude appeared struck with the firmness of her cousin's tone. 
 She dropped the patronising air which she had assumed, and 
 said, ' Goethe's principles cannot be false, for they will find an 
 echo in the heart of every one who can admire generosity and 
 devotedness, and an undying, unchanging affection.' 
 
 ' I have not read his works/ was all the answer which 
 Blanche made. She seemed weary of the argument. 
 
 Maude again had recourse to the volume by her side. Open- 
 ing it towards the end, she read a few sentences to herself. ' I 
 cannot let you have such notions, Blanche/ she exclaimed, after 
 a short pause ; ' they are beneath you. You must read, — you 
 must admire.' 
 
 ' As I should admire a dream or a fairy-tale/ said Blanche, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' That is what I don't understand ; it is the only thing I can't 
 understand in you/ said Maude. ' What do you mean by a 
 dream ? Patriotism, the love of liberty, generosity, love, are 
 realities: you can feel them yourself, I know, I am sure you can.' 
 
 ' I hope I can/ replied Blanche. ' I think them very real, 
 very lovely, and admirable.' 
 
 ' And therefore true/ continued Maude ; ' true, that is the 
 point, — that is the object to be sought after, desired, striven, 
 prayed for ! ' She spoke earnestly, her dark gray eyes kindling, 
 and her colour heightened. 
 
 ' Yes, truth ; it is the one thing needful/ replied Blanche : 
 ' but Mrs Howard says that a half truth must be the greatest of 
 falsehoods.' 
 
 H
 
 H4 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 What ? say it again/ exclaimed Maude. 
 
 Blanche repeated the words. 
 
 ' Goethe's truths are half truths, you mean,' continued Maude. 
 
 < I think they must be ; like the half truths of heathenism, 
 which led men to idolatry.' 
 
 ' But a whole truth, who can find it ? — who can be certain of 
 it ? ' said Maude, in a musing tone. 
 
 1 God is truth,' replied Blanche, timidly and reverently. 
 
 ' Yes/ and Maude's manner became reverent also ; ' but 
 men also are divine — in their noblest feelings, their highest 
 desires.' 
 
 ' We were made in the image of God/ observed Blanche ; 
 ' but the image is defaced.' 
 
 ' Granted, of course. Defaced ; but not utterly ruined — not 
 lost.' 
 
 ' No, indeed not/ exclaimed Blanche, enthusiastically ; ' not 
 lost — still to be restored, renewed again ; but it must be after 
 the perfect original.' 
 
 < I am tired of symbols/ said Maude, hastily. 
 
 * Still, may I tell you, will you not think me very presump- 
 tuous if I say what such notions as I believe Goethe's to be 
 appear to me to resemble ? ' continued Blanche : ' those I mean 
 which make persons interesting, and in a certain way good, 
 without being Christians. I must use an illustration ; I cannot 
 explain myself else. It is as if he had accidentally met with 
 separate fragments of what had once been the copy of a perfect 
 statue ; and because he admired each portion separately, sup- 
 posed that by uniting them altogether the whole would be 
 beautiful.' 
 
 ' Of course, of course/ interrupted Maude ; ' they could not 
 be less beautiful when put together than they were before, sup- 
 posing they were all the work of the same hand.' 
 
 ' But if parts were wanting/ continued Blanche : * or if 
 Goethe had never seen the perfect original, and therefore, in- 
 stead of combining them according to the first design, formed a 
 figure after the imagination of his own heart — distorted and 
 deficient, — there would be no beauty in the whole, though eveiy 
 separate member might be perfect.' 
 
 ' Well ! ' was all Maude would say. 
 
 ' I think, — it seems to me/ continued Blanche, hesitating, 
 ' that this is something like such principles as you tell me are to 
 be found in " Egmont." The feelings described may be good and
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 115 
 
 true separately ; but they can scarcely be so when they are put 
 together, because love and obedience to God are wanting.' 
 
 'No/ exclaimed Maude; 'Goethe, in "Egmont" at least, would 
 make men obedient to the principles implanted in them by nature 
 and conscience. You would not wish for a better guide than 
 conscience.' 
 
 ' It must be the conscience of the Bible, then,' said Blanche ; 
 ' not the conscience of a fallen nature. This is setting myself 
 up as being able to decide very weighty questions,' she added, 
 blushing ; ' but I have gained all my ideas from Mrs Howard. 
 Thoughts used to come into my head and puzzle me, and I used 
 to talk to her about them, and she made them clearer.' 
 
 ' I should like to argue her into admiring Goethe/ said 
 Maude ; ' that would be a triumph.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' exclaimed Blanche ; ' that is, to make her 
 approve would be impossible ; or admire either, in one sense ; 
 because she never admires what is not true.' 
 
 ' True ! true ! ' repeated Maude to herself. ' If one could 
 only find what is true ! ' 
 
 ' We are not true ourselves/ said Blanche, ' because of our 
 evil nature ; so that if there is truth anywhere, it must be in 
 something distinct from ourselves.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I suppose it may be so/ replied Maude, doubtfully. 
 
 ' In the Bible, then ? ' continued Blanche ; and finding that 
 Maude did not contradict her, she added, ' Goethe and the 
 Bible would not agree ; therefore Goethe's principles must be 
 untrue. Am I very obstinate ? ' 
 
 ' You arc very provoking/ replied Maude, tossing the book 
 from her. ' I will never ask you to read " Egmont " again ; 
 you may be quite certain of that.' 
 
 She spoke with irritation, but Blanche fancied that some 
 portion of it was assumed. ' I did not say that I would not 
 read it, and admire it too/ she said ; ' but you must let me try 
 and think that Clarchen was a heathen.' 
 
 Maude looked sullen. She went forward, picked up the 
 book, and turned towards the house. Just then Lord Ruther- 
 ford came upon the terrace ; he had been riding, and had 
 returned earlier than he expected. Maude's countenance struck 
 him as he passed her, and when he joined Blanche, he began 
 to inquire what was the matter. 
 
 Blanche did not venture to tell him the whole. She had an 
 intuitive perception of the points upon which they might differ,
 
 n 6 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 and avoided them carefully. Difference with him was very 
 unlike difference with her cousin ; it involved so much more. 
 And then she was afraid of him ; afraid of his cool, keen 
 sarcasm ; especially afraid, because she could not feel, as she 
 did when conversing with Maude, that, however at variance 
 their sentiments might be, both were earnestly seeking after 
 truth. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ' A ND you were not inclined to be of your aunt's party, 
 T\. then ? ' began the earl, after Blanche had briefly told 
 him that she had just finished an argument with Maude, which 
 left them apparently both where they had begun. 
 
 ' The party was formed before I came back from the par- 
 sonage,' replied Blanche ; ' and I meant to have gone for a 
 walk with Eleanor.' 
 
 ' You are wonderfully fond of the parsonage, Blanche ; are 
 you in love with Mrs Wentworth yet ? ' 
 
 A remembrance of the morning interview came to Blanche's 
 mind, and she answered quickly, ' Oh, no ! not at all in love.' 
 Adding, to soften her words, ' She requires, I think, to be 
 known well/ 
 
 ' Better than I ever knew her,' observed the earl, with 
 asperity. ' She is one of those chill pieces of propriety whose 
 very presence freezes one's blood. Marvellous it is to me that 
 she should have such children. Miss Wentworth is superior 
 in every way ; and her brother is a veiy handsome, agreeable 
 man.' 
 
 ' They are a handsome family,' observed Blanche. ' Dr 
 Wentworth ' 
 
 The earl interrupted her. ' My dear, you were going out ; 
 into the village, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Yes, some distance ; but I could not go alone, and the 
 pony-carriage was given up for my aunt.' 
 
 ' Well ! I will go with you ; you are not tired, I suppose ? ' 
 
 Blanche thought of Maude. She fancied that it was unkind 
 to leave her. 
 
 Her father drew near the steps which led down the bank. 
 4 You are going, — which way ? Can I help you ? '
 
 THE EARLS DA I "< 7HTER. 1 1 7 
 
 Blanche mentioned her cousin's name ; but the carl quickly 
 negatived the idea of asking her to join them, ending however 
 with, ' unless you particularly wish it, my love. I would have 
 you do whatever you like.' 
 
 Blanche did not make a second proposal. She ran lightly 
 down the steps, and taking her father's arm, they followed the 
 path which led them through the underwood, and amongst the 
 scattered trees, down to the edge of the stream. A rough 
 bridge was thrown over it, and Blanche, leading the way, with- 
 out thinking it necessary to explain where she was going, 
 crossed it, and pursued the path over a green field to the foot 
 of the steep, broken ground which bordered it. Lord Ruther- 
 ford walked on in silence, till Blanche began to ascend the 
 bank, when he stopped, and rallying her upon her forgetfulness 
 of his age, asked where she intended to carry him. 
 
 ' Only a little way, — quite a little way by this bad road,' 
 replied Blanche : ' we shall be in a straightforward lane, when 
 we are at the top of the bank. But, papa, I will not go on if 
 you had rather not. I was going to see Susannah Dyer.' 
 
 ' Susannah who ? Oh ! a poor woman, I suppose.' 
 
 1 A blind girl,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' Blind ! poor thing ! — extremely sad. Blanche, my darling, 
 you will sit clown, and rest first.' 
 
 The afternoon was passing rapidly, and Blanche's hopes of 
 visiting Susannah Dyer were becoming very slight ; but she sat 
 down obediently. 
 
 ' Susannah was confirmed when I was,' she commenced 
 again. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; I recollect you told me before. There is no 
 harm in your going to see her ; you like it, I suppose ; and you 
 have not much amusement.' 
 
 Blanche smiled to herself at the word amusement ; for it was 
 not what she generally associated with her visits to the poor. 
 
 ' Your aunt has been talking to me,' continued the earl, fol- 
 lowing, as he always did, the train of his own ideas. ' She 
 says I bury you here ; it is not the season for London, or she 
 would make me take you there directly.' 
 
 ' Me ! London ! O papa ! I am quite happy where I am.' 
 
 ' Happy in your ignorance, my love ! I am glad you are : 
 but ignorance will not do all one's life ; and you must be con- 
 demned to London, by and by, I am afraid. Condemned to a 
 gay life — balls, fStes, concerts,'
 
 1 1 8 THE EARLS DA UGHTER. 
 
 ' They sound pleasant,' said Blanche. ' I suppose I shall 
 like them; but Mrs Wentworth tells Eleanor that she should 
 not like her to be placed within reach of them.' 
 
 ' Mrs Wentworth is not your guide, my love. I mean, you 
 are not at all called upon to take her views. I don't wish you 
 to do so. I like you to form your own.' 
 
 Blanche was checked, and afraid to say how much she was 
 inclined to respect Mrs Wentworth's views. It was always the 
 case when conversing with her father. With all his partiality 
 — his devotion, it might be called — his eagerness to gain her 
 confidence — -insensibly he repelled her. She was always 
 choosing subjects for conversation, thinking whether he would 
 be pleased. There is no real freedom where this feeling exists. 
 
 ' Your aunt,' again began the earl, ' is very different from 
 Mrs Wentworth. She is a person of large, comprehensive 
 mind, and very unprejudiced. You must find the difference in 
 talking to them.' 
 
 ' My aunt is much the more agreeable,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' And her opinions are much the more valuable,' continued 
 the earl. ' You could not find a safer friend to introduce you 
 into the world. She understands the thing so well ; you can- 
 not possibly make mistakes, if you follow her advice. She has 
 an intuitive perception of right and wrong in all cases.' 
 
 ' I think she has very good, high notions,' said Blanche. 
 
 1 Yes ; very good, very high : what all persons should have,' 
 said the earl, quickly. ' But I was thinking of society. I have 
 perfect confidence in your good taste, my child ; yet you might, 
 in ignorance, offend against the customs of the world, if you 
 had no one to direct you. And it is a woman's direction which 
 is required : no man could understand what is wanted. I 
 should be quite satisfied if I thought your first introduction into 
 society would be under your aunt's chaperonage.' 
 
 ' And will it not be?' inquired Blanche, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 ' There is a doubt. Sir Hugh has odd whims, and sometimes 
 fancies he can only live abroad. I think it possible he will not 
 remain in England more than a twelvemonth ; if so, it would be 
 my great wish to give you a little insight into life soon. You 
 will be more than seventeen in the spring.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but that seems a long time off,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' You might enjoy a season in town, then,' continued tbe 
 earl, ' and your aunt might be with us ; and, in the meantime, 
 I think it would be desirable to show you something more than
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 119 
 
 the routine of our present life. Your cousins would like it, so 
 would your aunt, and it might induce her to remain with us 
 lunger. She had an idea the other day of persuading Sir Hugh 
 to go down to his own jolace; and I had some difficulty in talk- 
 ing her out of it. It would be an absurdity. Sir Hugh never 
 rests there : he no sooner feels himself tied doAvn to a place 
 than he is in an agony to leave it.' 
 
 ' But is it not right for persons to live on their own property,' 
 inquired Blanche, ' and take care of it and of the people, as 
 you do?' 
 
 ' Right, if they like it, my dear; but Sir Hugh's steward does 
 infinitely more good at Senilhurst than Sir Hugh himself. How- 
 ever, the question now is not about him. What shall you say, 
 Blanche, to an importation of visitors?' 
 
 Blanche laughed and blushed, and thought it might be plea- 
 sant, quite pleasant, if only her aunt could be the lady of the 
 castle instead of herself. 
 
 ' There we must differ,' replied the earl, turning upon her a 
 look of fond admiration. ' There is but one who can fitly fill 
 that station — only one,' he repeated, in a lower tone. Then, 
 after a short pause, he resumed, ' And will you like it, Blanche ? 
 —that was my doubt. Tell me — let me know,' he continued, 
 seeing that she was uncertain what to reply. 
 
 Blanche was obliged to speak; she never dared to delay an 
 answer when her father's manner was impetuous ; but she could 
 only repeat that it might be pleasant. This she saw did not 
 satisfy him, and making an effort to be candid, she added, ' I 
 cannot be sure till I have tried; and I do not like to say that 
 I wish it, because I think it might do me harm.' 
 
 ' Harm?' the earl turned to her hastily. 
 
 ' I might like it too well,' continued Blanche, her voice falter- 
 ing a little, as, with an instinctive feeling that it would be better 
 not to provoke any discussion upon duty, she added, ' To -day I 
 do not seem to care about it, because I have been disappointed 
 about Mrs Howard. I looked forward to her visit so much, that 
 now I do not seem to have an interest in other people. I daresay 
 I shall enjoy it though, dear papa,' she said, perceiving that he 
 looked disappointed ; ' and you will not scold me for being fond 
 of Mrs Howard.' She looked up into his face with a smile, 
 though a tear glistened in her eye. It was a smile of bright, 
 heavenly beauty ; but it brought proud visions of earth to the 
 worldly mind of the Earl of Rutherford,
 
 120 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 No,' he exclaimed; ' I would have you love, venerate, delight 
 in her. Whatever my Blanche loves must be most worthy. But 
 there are affections — feelings to be brought forth under other 
 circumstances ; scenes more fitted for you. You do not think, 
 Blanche, that I could consent to see you wear out the best years 
 of your existence here; when I have but to speak the word, and 
 you may be the centre of attraction, the star, the guiding light of 
 hundreds. No,' he added, as Blanche's colour deepened, till her 
 forehead was dyed of a crimson hue ; ' I would not pain you, my 
 child, with your own praises. I speak selfishly, for my own hap- 
 piness. To see you wasted at Rutherford would be wretchedness. 
 For my sake, you must forget the dreams of your childhood, and 
 look forward to the prospect opening before you.' 
 
 ' It will not be very difficult, I daresay,' said Blanche, trying 
 to throw her own mind into harmony with her father's. ' I dare- 
 say I have a taste for gaiety, only I have never had any oppor- 
 tunity of indulging it.' 
 
 ' Then you shall have it now,' exclaimed the earl, his face 
 brightening. ' I have been remiss, certainly, in my attentions to 
 the people about us ; but we will have a few persons in the house 
 to help us to entertain them, and then we can collect them en 
 masse, and make it agreeable.' 
 
 1 Soon?' inquired Blanche, with a timidity which she could not 
 hide. 
 
 Lord Rutherford laughed. ' The execution-day is not fixed : 
 but, my love,' — and his lightness of manner in a moment changed 
 into seriousness — ' you must not deceive me as to your wishes. 
 Neither for your aunt, nor for myself, nor for any human being- 
 will I consent to do what you do not like. You have only to say 
 the word, and Rutherford shall be as quiet and monotonous for 
 the next six months as it has been up to this moment.' 
 
 The word 'monotonous 'gave Blanche a quick insight into her 
 father's feelings. Though he would not own it, the desire for 
 society was as much for his own sake as for hers. She could not 
 disappoint him ; and, besides, she was not in her heart inclined 
 to do so. Blanche was young and naturally cheerful. She en- 
 joyed change, and amusement, and excitement ; and, though she 
 dreaded them as possible evils, she had never experienced any 
 harm from them. Eleanor, too, she knew would enjoy the novelty, 
 and Adelaide Charlton would be delighted ; and, with all these 
 mingled inducements to bias her inclinations, she at length 
 answered, as heartily as the earl desired, that ' she should
 
 THE /■:. IRL'S DA UGHTER. 1 2 1 
 
 certainly like it, provided only that her aunt would undertake 
 the management of everything ; ' and then, hoping that her 
 father would be satisfied, she stood up and proposed to continue 
 their walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 WHEN Blanche reached the blind girl's cottage, she was 
 not quite in the mood for such a visit. Her fancy had 
 been wandering. — yielding to the gay ideas which her father had 
 suggested. Lord Rutherford went with her till they were with- 
 in sight of the house, and then he took out his watch and said 
 that it was late, and hoped that Blanche would not stay too 
 long. ' It was a strange fancy to like coming to such an ugly 
 place.' Blanche was vexed that she had brought him ; and 
 blamed herself for not understanding him better, at least for not 
 consulting his wishes more. This was one of the many trifling 
 incidents which were continually reminding her of the little true 
 sympathy there was between them. He did not really care for 
 the things for which she cared, notwithstanding his desire of 
 making her happy. She opened a wicket-gate, and walked up 
 a narrow slip of garden to a square, red brick house, the only 
 ornament of which was a straggling monthly rose. She was 
 almost resolved not to go in : there was a sound of voices in the 
 house ; and she said to herself that perhaps it was another 
 visitor, and she should be in the way. Good reasons, or such 
 as are apparently good, always rise up to the aid of inclination. 
 Her father was leaning over the palings, and she feared he was 
 growing impatient, and her knock at the door was hasty in con- 
 sequence. In answer to her first inquiry, she was told that 
 Susannah was not well, and was only just dressed and coming 
 out of her bedroom. Blanche was about to find an excuse, and 
 say that she would call another day; but conscience reproached 
 her, and she never turned away from that warning. After Mrs 
 Howard's advice, she certainly ought not to postpone any duty 
 which presented itself, and, conquering the disinclination, she 
 said that she could wait till Susannah was ready. 
 
 A delay of some minutes took place before she was admitted. 
 Susannah was to be brought into the room, and seated in her
 
 122 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 proper chair ; and a bustling neighbour was to be dismissed at 
 a back door ; and two children sent out in a hurry, with some 
 broken playthings which made the room look untidy : but the 
 smile that brightened up the blind girl's intelligent face, when at 
 last Blanche entered, quite rewarded her for her patience. 
 
 'And you are not well, Susannah, I hear?' said Blanche, 
 sitting down by her side, and taking her hand ; whilst Susannah 
 turned to her with a look of gratitude, which did not need the 
 light of the eyes to give it expression. 
 
 ' I have not been very well this week, my lady ; I believe I 
 go out rather too much. But I have had a little nephew stay- 
 ing here till yesterday, my sister's child, who lives near your 
 ladyship's aunt, at Senilhurst. That tempted me to go about 
 with him and the other children ; for he is a sweet little fellow, 
 and I never liked to have him out of the way. We went over 
 the hill to the village one clay, and it was too far ; but there is 
 not much the matter.' 
 
 ' I wish I had known you were not well,' said Blanche ; ' I 
 certainly would have managed to see you before ; but the days 
 pass by, and there are so many things to do. I should have liked, 
 too, to see your little nephew. How old is he ?' 
 
 Blanche had touched the right chord to show her sympathy. 
 The blind girl forgot her trials, whilst in the pride and delight 
 which she felt in her sister's child she expatiated upon his good- 
 ness, and affection, and his beauty too ; for he was beautiful, 
 she declared. She quite knew what he was like ; but a heavy 
 sigh followed. 
 
 ' Poor Susannah ! ' said Blanche, kindly, 'it must be a great 
 trial.' 
 
 The blind girl recovered herself in an instant. ' I am not 
 going to complain, my lady. It 's all best, I know ; and I am 
 cheerful enough most times.' 
 
 ' Only out of spirits to-day, from not being well, I am afraid,' 
 said Blanche. ' I wish I could stay with you and read to you.' 
 
 ' Ah ! if you could ; some of the hymns out of the book Miss 
 Wentworth brought, I should like. They seem to be work for 
 me afterwards ; because when I sit knitting, I can remember 
 them. It must be a glorious thing to make verses ! ' 
 
 Blanche smiled and said, ' You told me one day you had tried 
 to make verses yourself, Susannah. I daresay it amuses you.' 
 
 ' Yes, sometimes in my poor way ; it makes the time pass to 
 see how tb.3 words fit.'
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 123 
 
 ' And verses suit some thoughts better than plain words do;' 
 continued Blanche. 
 
 ' Yes, than some plain words ; but not the Bible words.' 
 
 ' Many of them are really verses also, though not quite like 
 ours,' replied Blanche. ' Just listen to these;' and taking up a 
 Bible, she turned to the passage in Isaiah which bears us, in 
 thought, from this evil world to behold ' the land which is very 
 far off.' 
 
 Susannah listened in the attitude of fixed attention, and when 
 Blanche's voice ceased, she entreated for more. ' It was so 
 lovely,' she said ; ' it was like rest — not rest though, quite-; but 
 moving on without feeling it.' 
 
 Blanche could not refuse, and was beginning to read the 
 nfcy-fifth chapter when the earl, unperceived, came within sight 
 of the door. ' That first verse is a verse for illness, Susannah ; 
 is it not?' said Blanche, pausing; 'for the hot, weary days, 
 when our lips are parched and dry ; and a verse also for our 
 sad days, when it seems that we have no pleasure — when we sit 
 for hours still and lonely, and seem not to have any friends, or 
 comforts, and long and thirst for them ?' 
 
 ' But that can never be your case, my lady,' said Susannah. 
 
 Blanche answered quietly : ' The lonely feeling comes to us 
 all alike, at times, and so does the comfort. But I know it 
 must be worse for you than for me ; God has -given me a great 
 many blessings.' 
 
 * Yes, so many to love you,' continued Susannah. ' I can 
 fancy that better than all the grandeur." 
 
 Blanche could not repress a sigh as she replied, ' I hope there 
 are some in the world who love me, certainly — love me very 
 dearly ; but that love is not enough alone." 
 
 ' No, not alone ; I know it is not. I can feel it is not, some- 
 times ; ' and the expression of the poor girl's face spoke deep 
 awe and devotion ; ' but it comes for a time ; and then it goes, 
 and it is all dark — quite dark; ' she repeated, in a voice of melan- 
 choly, as if the privation from which she suffered had given her 
 a keener insight into the meaning of the darkness of the soul. 
 
 Blanche paused for a few instants before she replied. She 
 turned the pages of the Bible, and as she did so repeated, in an 
 under-tone, the first words of an evening prayer, beginning 
 ' Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee.' 
 
 Susannah caught the words, and said eagerly, ' Does it mean 
 darkness in our hearts ? '
 
 124 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Yes, in one sense it must,' answered Blanche ; 'and night 
 must mean the night of this life. It is a beautiful prayer.' 
 
 " Lighten our darkness,' repeated Susannah, thoughtfully. 
 ' Ah ! my lady ; that can never be for me.' 
 
 ' Not in this world perhaps,' continued Blanche ; ' but the 
 night will pass, Susannah, and the day will come — the glorious 
 day. It is worth waiting for, worth suffering and striving for, 
 worth patience.' 
 
 Susannah's face lighted up with interest, as she folded her 
 hands together with an air of devotion, and suffered a flower 
 which she had been picking to pieces to fall from her grasp. 
 
 ' Just think,' pursued Blanche, ' what it will be like ; it will 
 be light with no shadow, no cloud, no power of fading away — 
 perfect light both for the body and the soul. And it must come ; 
 though the hours seem ever so long, ever so dreary, it must 
 come. O Susannah, it will be light for us both, and we 
 both promised together to strive for it.' 
 
 Susannah did not reply ; the sympathy was beyond her com- 
 prehension. Since that one day which had united them in the 
 same act of self-dedication, their paths had parted, to the world's 
 sight, far asunder ; and whilst poverty and privation were her 
 lot, it seemed that both life and death must be light to the 
 envied heiress of Rutherford. 
 
 Blanche read her thoughts with wonderful quickness, and as 
 her voice sank and faltered, she added, ' You will not think it ; 
 but I have my moments of darkness too — sadness, loneliness, 
 and disappointment. Even for me earth would be often dreary 
 if it were my all.' 
 
 The earl's cough at that instant warned her that he was 
 within hearing. She looked up and caught his eye. His look 
 startled her. It was stern ; but the sternness of suffering rather 
 than of anger. He asked only if she was reach', took no notice 
 of Susannah, and scarcely allowing Blanche to bid a hearty 
 good-bye, led her from the cottage. 
 
 They walked on in silence for some distance. Blanche was 
 nervous and uncomfortable. She dreaded she knew not what. 
 As they stood again upon the brow of the steep bank they had 
 ascended after crossing the river, and which commanded a 
 splendid view of the castle and park of Rutherford, the earl 
 stopped her suddenly, and whilst he pointed to the domain 
 which was one day to be her own, said in a calm tone, the more 
 bitter from its effort to be indifferent : ' Then I have failed,
 
 THE KARL'S DAUGHTER. 125 
 
 Blanche, to make you happy. I give you all, and you are dis- 
 appointed.' 
 
 For a moment Blanche was quite unable to answer. The 
 restraint which she always felt when with her father now 
 amounted to dread; yet she summoned resolution, and replied, 
 ' We must all be disappointed sometimes, I suppose, dear papa ; 
 but I have a great deal to make me happy, and I am very 
 happy generally. I would not vex you for the world,' she 
 added, laying her hand affectionately upon his arm. 
 
 The earl took no notice of the caress, and after continuing his 
 walk for some little distance, exclaimed, as if giving vent to a 
 train of secret reflections, ' You are right, Blanche ; it must be 
 so. I was a fool to think it might be otherwise. But a last 
 hope, a last wish,' he added, in a lower tone. ' Folly though 
 it may be to cherish it, it is hard to give it up.' 
 
 ' If it is a wish for me, papa,' said Blanche, gaining courage 
 as she spoke, ' I think you may be satisfied ; for I desire no 
 change outwardly.' 
 
 ' Then what would you have ? Why do you speak of disap- 
 pointment ? ' he inquired, quickly. 
 
 Blanche evaded a direct reply, and replied, ' Our sad feelings 
 generally come from our own minds. There would be none, I 
 suppose, if we were perfect.' 
 
 A cloud gathered upon Lord Rutherford's face. ' You must 
 be careful,' he said. ' That morbid tenderness of conscience 
 may lead you, you know not where.' 
 
 ' 1 hope it is not morbid,' exclaimed Blanche ; ' for Mrs 
 Howard did not call it so : she understood it, and gave me 
 sympathy.' 
 
 ' Sympathy!' said the earl, in an under-tone ; and Blanche 
 repeated the word with an unconscious earnestness, for it ex- 
 pressed the true extent of her needs. They had crossed the 
 bridge, which was divided by a little gate from the castle 
 grounds. The earl opened the gate for Blanche to pass, but he 
 did not follow her, and when she turned to look for him, she 
 saw him leaning over it, with his face buried in his hands. 
 She walked on slowly ; her heart was full of anxious, unhappy 
 thoughts, and the sound of voices on the terrace above jarred 
 painfully upon her. The idea of possibly meeting strangers 
 made her hesitate to ascend the bank, and whilst waiting unde- 
 cidedly the earl rejoined her. 
 
 ' Not that way,' he said, as he heard Adelaide's laugh ; and
 
 126 THE EARIJS DAUGHTER. 
 
 he went on before her, so that she had only a momentary glimpse 
 of his countenance ; yet, even in that instant, she fancied it 
 looked paler than usual. They turned into a walk at the foot of 
 the bank, and reached the castle by a more circuitous path which 
 led to one of the side wings. A low door at the foot of a turret 
 presented itself at the termination. The earl stopped before it. 
 
 ' You know this way, of course/ he said. 
 
 ' Yes ; I have explored it once or twice/ replied Blanche. 
 
 ' You think you know it/ he continued, and a ghastly smile 
 overspread his features. ' But I doubt if you do. It is a pri- 
 vate entrance to your mother's apartments.' They passed on, 
 and ascended a winding staircase, which Blanche had only 
 noticed before as leading, she supposed, to the servants' rooms ; 
 and in a few seconds reached a small lobby, into which several 
 doors opened. The earl took a key from his pocket, unlocked 
 the nearest door, and putting another key into Blanche's hand, 
 said, ' This room opens behind the bedroom which you have 
 seen. You will find letters and papers in the cabinet. Read 
 them at your leisure if you will.' He did not wait for a reply, 
 but turned into a passage communicating with the other part of 
 the castle. 
 
 Blanche scarcely noticed that he was gone. She stood in 
 her mother's apartment, her place of solitude and retirement ; and 
 all consciousness of the present was absorbed in feeling for her 
 who slumbered with the dead. The room was small, and fur- 
 nished very simply ; the chairs were without carving or orna- 
 ment; the curtains of the plainest pattern; the carpet worn and 
 colourless from age. But a reading-stand was placed in the 
 oriel window, and upon it lay a large open Bible ; and a low 
 hassock, bearing the marks of long use, was before it ; and near, 
 upon a little table, was a Prayer-Book blotted with tears, and 
 open at the service for the Burial of the Dead ; and Blanche, 
 with but one thought in her mind, cast a hasty glance around, 
 and clasping her hands together, threw herself upon her knees to 
 pray, where her mother must have prayed, for pardon, and 
 strength, and acceptance at the Last Great Day. 
 
 A few moments calmed her mind, and she was able to exa- 
 mine the room more closely. It had evidently been left un- 
 touched since her mother's death, for the walls were discoloured 
 and the paper was damp ; and a sense of desolation came over 
 Blanche as she tried to unlock a large inlaid cabinet filling a 
 recess at the lower end, which at first resisted her strongest
 
 THE KARL'S DAUGHTER. 127 
 
 efforts, from the length of time it remained unopened. It was 
 the only mark of peculiar refinement or expense in the room, 
 with the exception of two small pictures upon sacred subjects, 
 exquisite in design, but fast losing their beauty from the clamp 
 that had gathered over them. Blanche succeeded in unlocking 
 the cabinet after some further efforts, and began a hurried in- 
 spection of its contents. Stray articles of various kinds were 
 collected in it, of little value in themselves, yet put aside care- 
 fully and marked. Remembrances they were of absent friends ; 
 ornaments associated with happy days ; things which once must 
 have had a voice and language for the heart ; now, like their 
 possessor, silent in spirit and association. And there were 
 other trifles, more painful perhaps to look upon as recalling the 
 daily life which had since become but a dream, — pens, sealing- 
 wax, scraps of paper, and memoranda, the items which form 
 part of our ordinary existence, and which could tell a truer tale 
 of life than the most valued relics. Blanche lingered over these 
 unconsciously. They brought her very near her mother. It 
 was as if but a few hours had passed since she had been seated 
 at her desk, using the pen encrusted with ink ; sealing, perhaps, 
 the last letter which she ever wrote ; or — the fancy flashed 
 across Blanche's mind, with an overpowering rush of regret, as 
 she caught sight of an infant's coral and rattle — amusing herself 
 with the child who was destined only to learn the -value of her 
 care by its loss. But time was passing rapidly. Blanche had 
 but a few minutes more to spare, and, shutting the drawer 
 quickly, she opened another division of the cabinet. Manu- 
 script books, letters, and papers filled it, and days would be re- 
 quired in order to examine them thoroughly. Blanche took 
 the book which lay nearest. It was full of old accounts ; she 
 threw it aside, and opened another, it was the same ; another, 
 and still another, and the gong sounded for dinner ; but Blanche 
 could not go. Paper after paper, book after book, was exa- 
 mined ; but nothing was found which could throw any light upon 
 her mother's personal history ; until, quite underneath the pile, 
 she laid her hand upon a packet of letters and a journal-book, 
 marked, ' Not to be opened till after my death.' The second 
 gong sounded as she hastily unfastened the string which bound 
 them ; and, closing the cabinet, she took up the packet, locked 
 the door of the chamber, and hurried to her own room to dress 
 as quickly as she might, and appear at the dinner-table, if pos- 
 sible, as gay and light-hearted as was her wont.
 
 128 THE EARLS DAUGHTER, 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 ' \7'0U were a complete truant this afternoon, my love,' said 
 
 J- Lady Charlton, addressing Blanche, as she threw her- 
 self into an arm-chair after dinner, professing to be too tired 
 either to read, write, or work. ' We had a charming drive, and 
 I should have liked to introduce you to my friends the Cuthbert 
 Greys. Very nice people they are in their way ; a little too 
 fashionable, perhaps, for your taste ; but kind-hearted and ex- 
 tremely clever. I quite thought, when Miss Wentworth joined 
 us, that you would be found somewhere.' 
 
 Blanche did not exactly like to own that she had absented 
 herself on purpose, and endeavoured to change the subject by 
 asking where they had been and what they had seen. 
 
 ' The carriage party went round by Staplehurst Common, and 
 over the hill to the old monument in Lord Hervey's grounds,' 
 said Eleanor ; ' but Miss Adelaide Charlton and I drove through 
 the copse.' 
 
 ' Miss Adelaide did not go with you anywhere by her own 
 consent,' exclaimed Adelaide, coming forward from the window 
 where she had been standing. 
 
 Eleanor laughed, and promised to be less formal another 
 time ; ' Though it is an error on the right side,' she added. 
 
 ' You must come with me to my room. I want to show you 
 that sketch we were speaking of,' continued Adelaide. 
 
 ' What sketch ? ' asked Maude, haughtily and quickly. 
 
 Adelaide's blush was not perceived in the twilight ; but she 
 did blush as she answered, in a tone of affected indifference, 
 ' Oh ! only one that was taken for me abroad, — I daresay you 
 don't remember.' 
 
 ' There was one which I took,' said Maude : ' is that it ? ' 
 
 ' No, no, Maude ! What can it signify to you ? ' and, call- 
 ing to Eleanor, Adelaide hastened out of the room. 
 
 Blanche watched this little scene with surprise, and a feeling 
 of annoyance which she could not account for. She stood in 
 silence for some moments, when Maude's hand was laid upon 
 her shoulder, and Maude's deep voice of satire whispered in her 
 ear, ' Jealous, Blanche ? ' Blanche started ; but, before she 
 could reply, Maude had glided past her, and she was left alone 
 with her aunt. She could not go then, although she longed to
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 129 
 
 do so ; but it would have been unkind, when they had scarcely 
 met all day ; and as Lady Charlton drew a chair towards her, 
 and beckoning to Blanche to seat herself in it, said, in her most 
 winning tone, ' Now, my child, we will have a few minutes of 
 pleasure,' Blanche would have been well contented, but for one 
 reason, to remain. 
 
 ' You were grave at dinner, my love, and you are grave now,' 
 began Lady Charlton. ' What is there to make you so ? must 
 I not know ? ' 
 
 ' I did not mean to show that 1 was grave,' replied Blanche. 
 
 ' But you cannot hide it, dear child, — not, at least, from me. 
 You are graver than you ought to be, Blanche, for your years.' 
 
 ' It is my disposition, I suppose,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' No, my love, I assure you it is not your disposition. You 
 are naturally light-hearted ; but you suffer yourself to brood too 
 much upon serious subjects.' 
 
 ' That cannot be, surely ? ' exclaimed Blanche. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, it can. You would say so, if you had had my 
 experience. You are very like your mother, Blanche.' 
 
 ' You would not wish to see me different, then, would you ? ' 
 asked Blanche, almost reproachfully. 
 
 ' Not in many things ; but, in that one, perhaps I might. 
 Much more of your happiness may depend upon it than you are 
 at all aware of.' 
 
 Lady Charlton spoke so energetically, that Blanche looked at 
 her with astonishment. ' Was not my mother happy ? ' was 
 the question which trembled on her lips ; but then, as often 
 before, she dreaded to ask it. 
 
 ' I should like to have my own way with you,' continued Lady 
 Charlton, in a lighter tone. ' You should not be buried at 
 Rutherford much longer if I had.' 
 
 ' Papa means to make Rutherford very gay,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' Ah ! my love, he means — I quite give him credit for his 
 meaning. But can he do it ? I know him better than you do, 
 Blanche. There is not a man of greater natural talent, or 
 greater powers of pleasing, in England, than your father,— but 
 not at Rutherford ; there is a weight upon him here.' 
 
 ' What ! how ? ' asked Blanche, quickly. 
 
 Lady Charlton hesitated, ' A weight I called it, — well ! it is 
 one : the weight of the place ; the old walls, and the old furni- 
 ture ; it even makes me melancholy. Now at Senilhurst, where 
 I would take you if I could, you would find everything dif- 
 
 I
 
 13© THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ferent ; a cheerful house, lovely grounds, open and bright, a very 
 pretty pasture country, not overpowering in beauty : you know, 
 or, at least you will know by and by, that nothing is more 
 fatiguing than being always on the mental tiptoe of admiration ; 
 — everything in fact to enliven you. It would be a new phase 
 of existence, and a good introduction to a season in London.' 
 
 Blanche liked the description, and said so ; and Lady Charlton 
 was excited too, and gave a yet more glowing picture of the en- 
 joyments she would find at Senilhurst. 
 
 ' I should recommend it far more than remaining here,' she 
 said. ' There is nothing to be done in a place like Rutherford. 
 Entertainments- — young people's entertainments, I mean— are 
 out of character. And you would not have the change — I see 
 that is what you want — complete change of scene.' 
 
 ' When I have been here only a few months ? ' 
 
 ' That does not signify, my love/ replied Lady Charlton ; ' it 
 is the effect of the place which is pressing you down. If your 
 father had consulted me, he never would have brought you here. 
 There is nothing so desirable for young persons as cheerfulness. 
 Grave thoughts and anxieties come quite soon enough,' she 
 added, with that sudden transition to a tone of sorrowful feel- 
 ing which always gave a peculiar interest to her conversation.' 
 
 ! I should have no village at Senilhurst ; no poor people, or 
 school,' said Blanche : ' that I should regret.' 
 
 * Yes ; but, my dear, you would have them. You should see 
 what we are doing there, and help us. Sir Hugh is a great 
 man for education, and gives me carte blancJie to do as I like 
 when we are at home ; and you shall help me. My own girls, 
 unfortunately, have never taken to that sort of thing, and it has 
 been a great vexation to me. Ady is too giddy, and Maude is 
 so wrapt up in German metaphysics. I assure you, Blanche, 
 you could be of the greatest possible use to me.' 
 
 ' And poor Eleanor,' said Blanche, unconsciously giving utter- 
 ance to her own train of thought. 
 
 ' Yes, she would miss you ; but, my dear, you cannot be 
 always together.' 
 
 ' We have been so till now,' said Blanche. ' I could not bear 
 to think of our being really separated.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, I can quite understand that ; you must be just 
 like sisters : but the being parted for a time will only make you 
 enjoy being together the more afterwards.' 
 
 ' It will be such a very long parting,' observed Blanche, ' if I
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 131 
 
 am to go to London in the spring ; unless I wonder whether 
 
 Mrs Wentworth would let her go with me there.' 
 
 'We had better not look forward, my dear child; take the 
 day as it comes. Go to Senilhurst with me now, and leave the 
 spring to itself.' 
 
 ' Mrs Wentworth would not allow it, I am afraid,' said 
 Blanche, unheeding the warning ; ' and I could never make up 
 my mind to ask her, if I thought she would say No.' 
 
 ' Mrs Wentworth's strictness would come in the way, I sup- 
 pose,' said Lady Charlton : 'but never mind, my love ; leave it, 
 as I said, and remember you will get on better in London than 
 you would elsewhere, without Miss Wentworth. There will be 
 so much to amuse and interest you. It pleases me immensely, 
 Blanche,' she added, bending forward to kiss her niece's fore- 
 head, ' to find you take to the idea so kindly, as the poor people 
 say ; and I shall tell your father we have settled it.' 
 
 < Oh ! no, no,' began Blanche ; but Lady Charlton stopped 
 her — ' My dear, you don't know your own power, and you must 
 be taught it. Believe me, you have but to say the word, and 
 horses would be ordered for Senilhurst to-night. And now you 
 have quite cheered me, and I must exert myself, and go and sec 
 after Sir Hugh. Shall we have tea soon ? I am tired, and must 
 go to bed early to-night ; so, if you can, don't let that Mr Went- 
 worth keep us till midnight singing glees and trios.' 
 
 Blanche rang for tea, and thought it might be possible to 
 snatch a few moments for solitude and a cursory inspection of 
 her precious packet of papers before it was brought in. Eleanor 
 and Adelaide were crossing the gallery as she went up-stairs. 
 She heard Eleanor say, in a laughing voice, ' I shall certainly 
 tell how carefully you have kept your treasure ;' whilst Adelaide 
 replied by a faint ' Oh ! no, no ! indeed you must not ! ' which, of 
 course, meant '. Pray do.' But Blanche did not stop to interpret 
 words, or search into hidden meanings ; only she thought it 
 strange that Eleanor should have found so much to occupy het 
 with Adelaide Charlton as to leave no time for her.
 
 132 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 IT was nearly midnight before Blanche went to her room for 
 the night. Notwithstanding Lady Charlton's injunctions, 
 music had been the order of the evening ; and music is, per- 
 haps, of all amusements the most enticing. Lord Rutherford 
 was particularly silent, and seemed quite in the mood for en- 
 joying a gratification which could be obtained without effort ; 
 and Sir Hugh, who generally joined the party for an hour or 
 two before he Avent to bed, was charmed with the opportunity 
 cf displaying his scientific knowledge. Duets, trios, glees, and 
 quartettes succeeded each other rapidly ; or rather, the quar- 
 tettes were the beginning, and the trios the finale : for, after a 
 short time, Maude, whose voice was of the greatest consequence, 
 professed her determination not to sing another note, and the 
 piano was left to the possession of Adelaide, Eleanor, and Mr 
 Wentworth ; Blanche only joining them occasionally. Blanche 
 was much occupied with her own thoughts ; but not sufficiently 
 so to render her unobservant of what was going on around. 
 Music was a delight to her, and in general such an evening 
 would have been a great treat ; but when at length the piano 
 was closed, and Eleanor and her brother departed, she felt re- 
 lieved, as if something which had annoyed and offended her 
 was removed. Yet it was hard to say what that something was. 
 There had been nothing to find fault with in the singing. No- 
 thing in the manner or behaviour of any one of the party to 
 herself. Eleanor had seemed anxious to make amends for any 
 apparent neglect ; and Maude, as if wishing to show that she 
 had quite forgotten their difference of opinion, was particularly 
 gentle, and pointed out a beautiful passage of ' Egmont,' which 
 she assured her she had marked because it was so entirely un- 
 objectionable. Every one had been kind to her ; yet Blanche 
 was fretted. It was so strange, she said to herself, that she 
 should be so ; so odd that she could not bear to watch Adel- 
 aide ; that she quite disliked hearing her speak to Mr Went- 
 worth. She was really very good-natured, and sang nicely, and 
 with a good deal of spirit and taste of a certain kind. But it 
 must be the taste, Blanche thought, which jarred upon her. It 
 was too marked — too personal ; and there was a system of 
 amiable quarrelling and bantering kept up between Adelaide 
 and Mr Wentworth in the intervals between the different songs,
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 133 
 
 which was especially disagreeable to her. She could not help 
 hoping that, if this style of intercourse was to go on, Mr Went- 
 worth would discontinue his visits. 
 
 Thoughts of Adelaide, however, were soon dispelled when the 
 door of Blanche's apartment was closed against interruption, 
 and she was at length left at liberty fully to examine her 
 mother's papers. Late though it was, she could not rest satis- 
 fied with the slight glance, which was all she had before given 
 them, and seizing upon the journal, as being the most likely to 
 afford her the information she desired, she began to read it. 
 
 But disappointment was destined to follow. There was no 
 record of passing events to tell the secret history of the Countess 
 of Rutherford, although there was sufficient to show that she 
 had been singularly gifted with refined taste and powers of ob- 
 servation, chastened by deep piety. The journal was not exactly 
 what its name implied. It was rather a book of remarks, 
 thoughts, extracts, and prayers. To the writer it must have 
 been full of memories and suggestions ; for there were dates and 
 private marks, bearing reference, apparently, to the seasons at 
 which the observations had been made ; and there was also a 
 visible change in the style of writing from the commencement 
 to the end. The first pages showed more imagination than 
 reflection ; more of hope than contentment. The last were 
 almost entirely short extracts from devotional writers, expressive 
 of great mental sufferings, and an endeavour to be resigned 
 under affliction. They were unconnected, and sometimes ab- 
 ruptly terminated. The handwriting was often illegible, and a 
 few sentences were introduced, apparently without meaning ; 
 but the concluding words, written several months before death 
 had summoned the Countess of Rutherford to her rest, were 
 the declaration of the Psalmist : ' I will patiently abide alway, 
 and will praise Thee more and more.' 
 
 Blanche repeated the verse to herself again and again, for it 
 seemed sent as her mother's legacy — her last accents of advice 
 and encouragement. But there was nothing strictly personal in 
 all this; and she turned to the letters. They also were, for the 
 most part, unsatisfactory, being chiefly written by Lady Ruther- 
 ford's friends, with the exception of a few from the earl, dated 
 in the first year of his married life, and preserved most carefully 
 in a little silk case. These were kind and considerate; but 
 implied frequent long absences, and gave few indications of any 
 wish to be at Rutherford. Engagements, it was said, kept him
 
 134 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 in London. He hoped to be in the country soon, but could not 
 promise certainly; he trusted that the Countess was amusing 
 herself; begged her to deny herself no gratification ; was glad 
 to hear that Mrs Wentworth was with her. These, and many 
 similar wishes, came in every letter. But Blanche was chilled 
 as she perused them ; for it was not the love which would have 
 been shown to herself. 
 
 Surely, she thought, there must have been something more. 
 This could not have been the affection for the sake of which her 
 mother had left home, and friends, and early ties, and pledged 
 herself, by the most solemn and binding engagement, to love, 
 and honour, and obey, until death. One letter of the packet 
 was still unread, and, with a sickening feeling of doubt and dis- 
 appointment, Blanche unfolded it. It was without a direction, 
 and in her mother's handwriting, addressed to a dear friend. 
 
 The first sentence attracted her attention by a painful fasci- 
 nation. 'You tell me I must struggle against my misery; but 
 do you know what you require? You would not be willingly 
 unkind ; yet by such words you raise a barrier between us, which 
 leaves me doubly desolate. Weary and heartsick I have been 
 so long that sorrow is my natural element, and hitherto I have 
 borne it in silence. But if the captive sinks under the burden 
 of captivity, who shall blame him? I wander, day after day, 
 seeking for I know not what — longing for rest which never 
 comes; listening for — I am listening now — but you will find 
 fault with me. God hears me; I turn to Him. He will hear 
 my child. I give her to Him. — If my husband comes — I am 
 dreaming — too late.' And those few sentences, the half-col- 
 lected, half-unconscious outpourings of a broken heart, were the 
 only indications granted to Blanche of the cause of that grief 
 which had preyed upon her mother's health, and, it seemed too 
 evident, at length crushed the powers of her mind. 
 
 The morning dawned brilliantly and cloudlessly upon Ruther- 
 ford Castle, and as Blanche roused herself from a short slum- 
 ber, the last words of her mother's letter flashed upon her 
 memory before she could recall where she had heard them, or 
 why they should be accompanied by a pang. 
 
 The recollection came but too soon, and with it the convic- 
 tion that her most painful suspicions were verified — that her 
 mother's life had been rendered miserable by neglect. For, in 
 the clear thoughts of the morning, Blanche could put together 
 words, and incidents, and trifling remarks, which had fixed
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 J3 
 
 themselves in her memory from the very pain they had caused, 
 and by their aid find a clue to many circumstances hitherto 
 mysterious. Long before the household had risen she sat up in 
 her bed, gazing upon the straggling, nearly illegible, characters 
 which showed the wretchedness of her mother's feelings, almost 
 as much as the words themselves ; whilst indignation and fear 
 were succeeded by bitter self-reproach, as she allowed herself to 
 pity one parent at the expense of her affection for another. Her 
 mother had been lonely and heartsick, and no one had been 
 near to comfort her. She had been left to breathe her anxious 
 wishes, and no one had been at hand to gratify them. She was 
 ill in body and in mind, and there was no one to administer to 
 her needs or calm her distracted spirit. Whose fault could it 
 have been ? Blanche rested her forehead on her hand to still 
 the beating, throbbing pain, which was settling there. It was 
 no new thought that her father was proud and worldly, and had 
 no sympathy with her highest hopes. Day by day the assur- 
 ance had become ' doubly sure ; ' and the gulf between them 
 more widely marked. But could he also be cold and neglectful ; 
 he, who was so devoted to his child's happiness, whose every 
 thought was centred in her gratification, whose eagerness to in- 
 dulge was even painful and burdensome ? Alas ! for that most 
 bitter of all doubts, which bids us look with suspicion on those 
 whom duty bids us reverence. 
 
 When the party assembled at the breakfast table, the pale 
 face of Lady Blanche excited general notice. The earl looked 
 at her with uneasy interest, but only asked if she had slept well; 
 whilst Lady Chariton took occasion to remark that it was evident 
 the place did not agree with her ; she had thought so for a long 
 time, but did not like to say so. ' Senilhurst would do her a 
 great deal of good, if you would but think so/ she added, ad- 
 dressing Lord Rutherford. 
 
 ' Senilhurst will do very well, if Blanche likes it,' he replied, 
 ' but I very much doubt if she does.' 
 
 Blanche smiled faintly, and said she should miss many things 
 at Rutherford extremely. 
 
 ' But, my love,' and Lady Charlton turned round with a spark- 
 ling eye ; ' it was only last night you entirely entered into my 
 views, and quite enjoyed the idea : you really are very incom- 
 prehensible.' 
 
 ' I don't much care,' began Blanche ; but she stopped, for she 
 knew that indifference would vex every one.
 
 rso THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 You don't care, my dear ? I wish I could understand ) ou ( 
 I wish I knew what you were aiming at.' 
 
 ' She is not aiming at anything,' said the earl coolly. ' She 
 likes staying at Rutherford ; and, if so, at Rutherford we will 
 stay.' 
 
 Lady Charlton compressed her lips and went on with her 
 breakfast. Soon after, Adelaide came into the room. Lady 
 Charlton looked up, and said, ' You are very late. Is your 
 father dressed ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know,' was Adelaide's careless reply, as if the ques- 
 tion did not at all concern her. 
 
 ' I must know. I wonder what Pearson has been about ; 
 pray inquire,' continued Lady Charlton to one of the servants. 
 ' Pearson has grown extremely absurd of late,' she added to 
 herself ; ' he never can be in time ; and Sir Hugh won't bear 
 it.' 
 
 Pearson made his appearance, and was immediately accosted 
 with — ' Sir Hugh is not at breakfast, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, my lady; at breakfast, and quite enjoying it. He hopes 
 to see your ladyship as soon as is convenient.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' and as Pearson withdrew, Lady Charlton gave a slight 
 push to her plate, and declared she had no appetite, and really 
 felt quite unwell. As it was such a beautiful morning, she 
 thought she should like a little stroll on the terrace, for the sake 
 of the air. 
 
 Blanche half rose to accompany her, or at least to ask if she 
 could be of any assistance ; but Lady Charlton motioned to her 
 to remain, and murmuring a few thanks went away. Silence 
 followed. Lord Rutherford took up a newspaper, and Adelaide 
 began reading a letter, whilst Maude occupied herself in study- 
 ing a large historical picture that hung opposite to her ; and 
 Blanche tried to finish a breakfast for which she had not any 
 appetite. Maude looked at her from time to time with an ex- 
 pression of greater gentleness in her features than they seemed 
 naturally formed to wear ; and as Adelaide lingered, according 
 to her custom, tasting first one thing and then another, sighing 
 because the tea was cold, and ordering coffee, which, when it 
 came, she did not wish for, Maude declared herself ashamed of 
 wasting so much time, and proposed to Blanche to leave her. 
 
 ' Yes, do go ; never mind me,' exclaimed Adelaide, good- 
 naturedly ; ' I have quantities of amusement — the most charm- 
 ing letter you ever read, Maude, from Caroline Grey. She is so
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 137 
 
 sorry not to be in the neighbourhood, with her mother unci 
 sister, now we are here.' Maude's lip curled. ' I leave you to 
 your friend very willingly,' she said, ' so long as I am not re- 
 quired to undergo the penance of reading what she writes.' 
 
 ' Ah well ! you don't like her; but that I can't help. Blanche, 
 Caroline Grey would just suit you ; you shall know her some 
 day.' 
 
 ' And hate her as I do,' whispered Maude, putting her arm 
 within that of Blanche, and drawing her out of the room. 
 ' Caroline Grey is Adelaide's dearest weakness,' she added, 
 laughing, as she led Blanche to the library. ' Almost more silly 
 than herself, if that were possible. But we won't talk about 
 her. What have you done, Blanche, to put my mother in such 
 a. ferment ? ' 
 
 ' I ! ' exclaimed Blanche. ' Is my aunt vexed ? ' 
 
 ' My dear child, what a perfect innocent you are ! Vexed ? 
 — She is angry, furious.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, surely.' 
 
 ' Hark ! Here she comes ! ' said Maude, and Lady Charlton 
 walked into the room, inquired for some sealing-wax; asked 
 Maude where Adelaide was, and, after a formal ' Better, thank 
 you,' in reply to Blanche's inquiry of how she felt, again departed. 
 
 ' I am afraid she is annoyed,' said Blanche, much perplexed. 
 
 ' Only annoyed ! ' said Maude. ' Well, we must hope it may 
 be nothing more. But what concerns me most, Blanche, is your- 
 self. You look woefully pale this morning, and I must know the 
 reason why.' 
 
 ' I slept badly,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' But why ? Sleeping badly is never an ultimate cause, and 
 my mind cannot rest till it has reached one.' 
 
 ' I did sleep badly : but I cannot tell you the reason why,' 
 said Blanche, quietly. 
 
 ' But I must know. I must insist upon knowing. Had it 
 anything to do with our stupid afternoon, yesterday ? Did I 
 bore you by my German nonsense?' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no ; I scarcely thought about it.' 
 
 ' Not complimentary ; one would rather be hated than for- 
 gotten. Still I forgive you. But the pale looks and the bad 
 night, — I shall go backwards, like the wonderful history of the 
 " House that Jack built," till I find the cause.' 
 
 Blanche's eyes filled with tears, and Maude's manner altered 
 directly.
 
 133 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' There is something more in this than a little fever, or a fit 
 of worry,' she exclaimed. ' Blanche ! I wish I could make you 
 believe that I am not quite such a heathenish savage as I appear.' 
 
 ' Only yourself would call you so,' said Blanche, half-laughing. 
 
 ' No. But a great many would think me so. And yet, I 
 think, yes ; I am sure,' she continued, more seriously, ' that I 
 could be a friend — a true friend — a better friend to you than 
 most people. Blanche, why do you feel yourself so lonely ? ' 
 
 Blanche regarded her with a smile of surprise ; and Maude 
 went on. ' You are lonely, though you may not choose to own 
 it ; you have no one to sympathise with you, though so many 
 love you ; and you have fancies, and worries, and brooding 
 thoughts. I see it constantly.' 
 
 ' Are you sure you are not speaking of yourself ? ' asked 
 Blanche. 
 
 ' Never mind me ; I am used to it. I am older, have seen 
 more of the world, and have learnt to live in it by myself. But 
 you have not. And you are not formed to battle with it alo*;e ; 
 as I am.' 
 
 ' It may be the lesson I am to learn,' said Blanche, gravely. 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed Maude ; ' that is one of your narrow 
 views. We choose our own lessons, and shape our own lives. 
 They do so, at least, who are worth anything. Determine that 
 you will not be lonely, — that you will have companionship and 
 sympathy, and you will find it.' 
 
 ' Have you done so ? ' asked Blanche. 
 
 ' No ; but it is because I do not need it — because I would 
 rather stem the torrent of life's troubles by my own unassisted 
 power ; but you are formed to lean upon others and cling to 
 them. Why must you condemn yourself to reserve and 
 solitude ? ' 
 
 ' I do not condemn myself,' replied Blanche. ' I enjoy sym- 
 pathy when I can have it ; but I do not need it as much as you 
 imagine : or rather,' and her colour slightly deepened as she 
 spoke, ' I have more than I can explain.' 
 
 Maude turned away as if annoyed. 
 
 1 Am I unkind ? ' said Blanche, following her. 
 
 ' Incomprehensible merely,' was Maude's cold reply ; ' but 
 I have no wish whatever to force your confidence. I might 
 have known, from our conversation yesterday, how little our 
 ideas accord.' And yet, as she said this, Maude lingered in the 
 room, evident!}' unwilling to break off the conversation.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 139 
 
 ' You are very kind to me, dear Maude,' said Blanche, gently. 
 ' I wish I could make you believe that I really am obliged ; 
 perhaps, by and by, you will, when we understand each other ; 
 for, in some things, I think we agree more than we know. But, 
 as regards confidence, I have none that I should feel it right to 
 give to any one, except Mrs Howard ; or, perhaps, my aunt.' 
 
 ' Mamma ! ' exclaimed Maude. ' Confidence to her ! ' 
 
 'I don't mean confidence, exactly,' replied Blanche. 'But 
 there are some things which she could tell me, which would be 
 a comfort to me ; though I could not ask her about them just 
 now.' 
 
 ' No ; — certainly,' answered Maude, with a satirical laugh. 
 ' Fond though she is of you, I would not advise you to put 
 yourself in her way again, for some hours at least.' 
 
 Blanche looked distressed, and said she was scarcely aware 
 what she had done, though she supposed it was being so 
 foolishly changeable, as to going to Senilhurst. 
 
 ' I suppose it was that : but leave her to herself; she will come 
 round again ; and she will bear a great deal from you.' 
 
 ' I am glad she is fond of me,' said Blanche ; though she said 
 it with an uncomfortable feeling of distrust and disappointment. 
 
 ' Yes ! mamma is always fond of persons she is proud of.' 
 
 Blanche's face showed that she was puzzled ; and Maude 
 continued, laughingly, ' Now, my dear Blanche, there is a 
 certain limit to simplicity, beyond which it becomes silliness. 
 You really are much too sensible not to know that you possess 
 a great deal of which the world is proud — rank, wealth, beauty. 
 Nay ; don't shrink from the truth,' she added, as Blanche 
 suffered an expression of distaste to escape her lips. ' I am 
 not flattering you ; I am not a man paying court to you ; if I 
 were, I should be wiser than to praise you to your face. But I 
 long to see you make the most of yourself; and I am sure no 
 one can ever do that who has not a thorough appreciation of 
 his or her peculiar advantages. So you must understand that 
 mamma is proud of you ; and, as a consequence, fond of you ; 
 and if you choose to go and confide your griefs to her, don't let 
 me prevent you. Only, I should have imagined ' 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 Maude thought for a moment, and then answered, ' I should 
 have thought that your taste might have led you in a different 
 direction.' 
 
 ' It is not a question of taste,' replied Blanche. ' If I did
 
 140 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 not love my aunt, she would still be the only person to help me 
 now ; unless, perhaps, Mrs Wentworth could.' 
 
 ' Then go to Mrs Wentworth,' exclaimed Maude, hastily. 
 ' Cold though she is, stiff, unbending,— go to her, Blanche. 
 You wonder at me, and I shock you ; but I am not thinking of 
 my mother, as my mother — only as suiting you. Mrs Went- 
 worth will tell you more of what you wish to know than mamma 
 will,' she added, fixing her large piercing eyes upon Blanche, as 
 if she knew her inmost heart. 
 
 ' But I cannot go to Mrs Wentworth ; 1 cannot learn from 
 one who is not a member of my family ' 
 
 ' The secrets of that family,' added Maude, quietly. ' Sup- 
 pose I could tell them, Blanche ? ' 
 
 ' Do you know? Can you tell?' exclaimed Blanche, and the 
 faint shade of colour in her cheeks went and came rapidly. 
 
 ' If I cannot tell myself, I might learn,' pursued Maude. 
 
 Blanche shook her head in disappointment. ' No ; you are 
 very kind, very good ; but it will not do.' 
 
 ' And there is to be no confidence between us, then ? ' said 
 Maude. 
 
 Blanche did not answer. They had been standing together 
 at the window, and as she was about to turn away from it, 
 Maude laid a detaining hand upon her arm, and pointing to a 
 bird which was winging its flight far into the blue sky, said, ' I 
 had a dream of two minds soaring together, leaving the delu- 
 sions of this paltry world behind them, and seeking a higher 
 life in the glorious light of truth.' 
 
 Blanche sighed. 
 
 ' Must it be a dream ? ' said Maude, almost tenderly. 
 
 Blanche raised her eyes timidly to her cousin's face, as she 
 replied unhesitatingly, ' There is a false light as well as a true 
 one. Before we soar together, Maude, we must know which we 
 are seeking.' 
 
 ' Truth,' answered Maude. ' In other words, spiritual, in- 
 tellectual beauty, which is another name for truth.' 
 
 Blanche passed her hand over her eyes, and said, with a 
 faint smile, ' I cannot talk as we did yesterday — my head aches 
 too much ; I cannot fix my thoughts.' 
 
 There was a tone of indescribable depression and weariness 
 in her voice. Maude looked at her compassionately and kissed 
 her, and said she would not tease her ; and the sympathy 
 overcame the self-command which Blanche had been ex-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. ill 
 
 ercising, and large tears filled her eyes, and rolled down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 Maude made her sit down. 'Can't I help you?' she said. 
 ' Are you quite sure ? ' 
 
 ' Quite sure ; unless you know.' She thought for a few 
 moments, and then added, ' Does my aunt ever talk to you 
 about herself?' 
 
 'About past days?' said Maude. 'Yes, sometimes; but 
 not often.' 
 
 ' Not of interesting things ; things which would interest me?' 
 and Blanche looked up imploringly. 
 
 ' I don't know,' said Maude doubtfully ; ' that is, they would 
 interest you in a way.' 
 
 ' But does she ever mention my mother ? ' The last words 
 were uttered with painful unwillingness, and when they were 
 spoken Blanche sat with her hands tightly clasped together, as 
 with an effort to conceal the working of some keen emotion. 
 
 The perplexed expression of Maude's face increased as she 
 looked at her. 'What is it that troubles you, Blanche?' she 
 said. ' Surely nothing connected with days so long gone by — 
 sorrows that have so long ceased ? ' 
 
 ' Then she was sorrowful ; she was miserable,' exclaimed 
 Blanche, rising impetuously. ' O Maude, in pity tell me what 
 you know.' 
 
 ' Sorrowful, miserable,' repeated Maude, slowly. ' One must 
 always fear it in such cases ; but it may have been better than 
 we think.' 
 
 Blanche grasped her cousin's hand, and the brightness of her 
 eye was terrible in its eagerness. 
 
 ' There are sadder moments of sanity than of delusion,' con- 
 tinued Maude, gently; and Blanche's fingers relaxed their grasp, 
 and she fell back in her chair nearly fainting. Maude was not 
 in the least hurried out of her usual steadiness of manner ; she 
 sprinkled some water on her cousin's forehead from a flower- 
 glass near, and when Blanche a little revived, and uttered mourn- 
 fully the word ' delusion,' answered, without any reference to 
 her transient weakness, ' I thought you knew it, dear.' 
 
 ' No, no; they kept it from me. But tell me now quickly.' 
 
 ' Only delusion,' answered Maude ; ' nothing more. Nothing 
 to distress you, Blanche. Pray believe me,' she added, as 
 Blanche's eyes again filled with tears. 
 
 'But what delusion? of what kind?' asked Blanche, faintly.
 
 142 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Quiet melancholy ; only that, I assure you ; nothing really 
 hereditary to frighten you.' 
 
 Blanche scarcely seemed to hear this comfort : she only said 
 in reply, ' Was she alone ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sometimes, when it could not be helped,' replied 
 Maude, with evident hesitation. 
 
 'Quite alone; sorrowful! miserable!' murmured Blanche; 
 and she leant her head upon her hand, and cried bitterly. 
 
 ' I will tell you all I know,' said Maude. 'She was not strong 
 naturally, mamma says ; and she was a great deal by herself ; 
 and she must have been like you, Blanche, fond of brooding 
 over her own fancies, for they never could persuade her to see 
 people and go out, except occasionally, when Lord Rutherford 
 was here.' 
 
 '■ And she went out then ? she was happy then?' exclaimed 
 Blanche, raising her head quickly. 
 
 ' Yes, she went out a little to please him,' continued Maude. 
 ' But you know he was absent a great deal, especially at last.' 
 
 Blanche's head sunk despondingly. Maude's quick eye re- 
 marked the change, but she went on — ' I do not think there 
 was really anything to distress you so much ; of course, she 
 had every comfort, and her mind' — she stopped, considering 
 how to approach the subject in the way least likely to give pain; 
 but Blanche made a slight motion of the hand, and said, ' I can 
 bear it,' and Maude continued, in a rather hurried voice, ' It 
 was not so very dreadful ; not common insanity. She was very 
 quiet, and gentle, and good. Mamma used to come and see 
 her very often, and for a long time people said it was only 
 melancholy, it came on so gradually. She used to write a great 
 deal, I believe; but almost all her papers were destroyed when 
 Lord Rutherford came back from abroad.' 
 
 ' But he was with her; quite at the last?' said Blanche, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 'No; he was not here in time. It was very unfortunate; for 
 the longing to see him was so great, it was worse than any- 
 thing. But, Blanche, my dear, I am doing you harm,' she said, 
 observing her cousin's look of intense suffering. 
 
 ' No, no ; go on,' was all that Blanche ventured to utter. 
 
 ' There is not much besides to tell,' answered Maude. ' But 
 indeed, Blanche, I am very anxious you should not think it at all 
 worse than it really was. She was ill and depressed very long 
 before it was thought necessary to have any one with her ; ^
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 143 
 
 companion,' she added, as Blanche slightly shuddered. ' And, 
 even to the very last, there were intervals when she knew, every- 
 thing and everybody quite well ; and the only way in which they 
 discovered when the attacks were coming on worse, was that she 
 would then kneel for hours together in her room, repeating por- 
 tions of the Burial Service.' 
 
 Blanche put her hand before her eyes to hide the light of the 
 glorious sun. Many moments elapsed before she spoke. Then 
 she rose from her seat, and kissed Maude and said, 'Thank you ; 
 you have been very kind ; you must not say that you have told 
 me,' and walked slowly out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MRS WENTWORTH was sitting alone in her little room ; 
 the post was just come in, and she was busied in 
 answering her letters. She looked particularly old that morn- 
 ing ; perhaps her dress was unbecoming — perhaps her letters 
 had been annoying ; at any rate, her care-worn expression was 
 sufficient to attract observation ; and as Dr Wentworth passed 
 the window, and stopped to say a few cheerful words, it made 
 him delay the business he was bent upon, and re-enter the 
 house. ' There is nothing amiss in them, is there, my love ? ' 
 he inquired, taking up the letters on the table. ' I did not read 
 them through.' 
 
 i Oh, no ! nothing : they are mere chit-chat; not of any con- 
 sequence. Why should you ask ?' 
 
 ' You seemed uncomfortable — that is all ; but if there is 
 nothing the matter, well and good. It must be the cap, I think. 
 which makes you look different. I think I told you I was going 
 to the Union this morning.' 
 
 ' Yes : you will be back to dinner, I suppose, at six o'clock.' 
 
 ' Say half-past ; we shall be more punctual. Good-bye ; ' 
 and Dr Wentworth departed. 
 
 Mrs Wentworth leant back in her chair, in a reverie, a strange 
 and painful one. It carried her back many years, to that early 
 romance of first love — that entire sympathy of thought and 
 feeling, which she had imagined was to last undiminished for 
 ever. Dr Wentworth was a good man, an earnest man : his
 
 144 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 heart was given to his duties first ; his family afterwards. His 
 wife did not wish it should be otherwise ; but she did not 
 resemble him. The romance of her early years had not, like his, 
 been extinguished by the constant pressure of parochial cares. 
 She was poetical, enthusiastic still, in secret. She had, as it 
 were, two characters — the one of great imagination, the other of 
 strong common sense. Her husband's affections had been won 
 by the former ; they were retained by the latter. Imagination, 
 with him, had been the amusement of boyhood ; with her, it was 
 the present beauty of life : and if Mrs Wentworth had been 
 endued with a less portion of right feeling and self-command, the 
 discovery of this essential difference in their characters might 
 have been made at the risk of the happiness of both. As it was, 
 it only served to throw her back into herself, to chill the outward 
 show of enthusiasm, and to concentrate all the intensity of her 
 hopes and interests upon her children. Perfect respect, and a 
 true, though unimpassioned, love, were still her husband's; but 
 she had learnt to live her inward life without him : and whilst 
 sharing his pleasures, and sympathising in his sorrows, she con- 
 cealed, as by a natural instinct, those keener, more sensitive 
 feelings, which he would not have understood. There were 
 times when this sense of uncongeniality was very oppressive. 
 When Mrs Wentworth thought of her children, she most felt the 
 absence of that perfect sympathy, which would have supported 
 and soothed her under the anxieties they occasioned. It was a 
 fear for them which was now pressing heavily upon her spirits ; 
 that boding, shadowy fear which cannot be combated, because it 
 assumes no tangible form. She indulged the reverie of the past 
 for a few moments only. It was dangerous to her peace, and 
 contrary to her strict conscientiousness ; but, as it faded away, 
 there rose up the long vista of futurity, and who can blame a 
 mother's momentary longing to pierce into its secrets? It is so 
 hard to persuade ourselves that the children whom we love so 
 fondly, and guard so tenderly, must one day bear, as we do, the 
 burden of this evil world. When we are sinking ourselves 
 beneath pressing cares, we can least endure the thought that 
 they must sink likewise. When we are struggling with the 
 claims of conflicting duties, or worn with exertions for their 
 happiness, we can least look forward to the same conflict for 
 them. We watch them in their hours of mirth, and listen to 
 their joyful expectations, and in pity suffer the delusion to last 
 whilst yet it may; and at length we ourselves become sharers in
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 145 
 
 it, and closing our eyes to reality, whisper to our own hearts, 
 'To-morrow shall be as this day, and much more abundant.' 
 Happy is it that, a truer love and a wiser forethought is steadih , 
 unshrinkingly, yet most mercifully, preparing for them the cup 
 of trial which we would so weakly withhold. 
 
 A knock at the door disturbed the train of Mrs Wentworth'^ 
 thoughts. ' Come in,' was the order, spoken quickly and ner- 
 vously ; but Mrs Wentworth did not look round. 
 
 ' Did you want me, mamma?' asked Eleanor, standing as if 
 unwilling to enter. 
 
 ' Yes, if you are not engaged. Is Susan at her lessons ?' 
 
 ' She was just going to say them ; but she can do something 
 by herself, if you wish it, mamma;' and Eleanor retired. 
 
 Several minutes passed before her return, more, it seemed, 
 than were necessary, and Mrs Wentworth had a hasty word on 
 her lips in consequence; but it was not uttered, and served 
 only to give a sadder tone to her voice, as she said, ' I would 
 not have interrupted you, my dear, if there had not been a 
 necessity.' 
 
 A little awkwardness was perceptible in Eleanor's manner as 
 she approached her mother, and a certain consciousness that 
 the necessity alluded to was not an agreeable one. 
 
 'You were very late returning from the castle last night, my 
 love,' continued Mrs Wentworth. ' I did not like to vex you 
 by saying anything about it at the time; but I was sorry. I 
 did not expect, indeed, that you would have stayed to dine.' 
 
 ' I did not mean to do it,' replied Eleanor; ' but we went out 
 driving and riding, and came back late; and then Lady Charl- 
 ton and Adelaide persuaded me, and I thought you would not 
 be angry.' 
 
 ' Adelaide,' repeated Mrs Wentworth, in a musing tone ; but 
 she made no other comment upon the familiarity. ' I am not 
 angry, my dear child,' she added ; ' and, perhaps, I should not 
 even be vexed, if you were alone.' 
 
 ' You are afraid for Charles,' replied Eleanor; ' but, mamma, 
 it is his only amusement.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it ; but it makes me very anxious.' 
 
 Eleanor looked steadily in her mother's face, whilst a smile, 
 which she vainly strove to repress, stole over her features, a5 
 she said, ' You are afraid of his falling in love, mamma ?' 
 
 ' Falling in love, my dear ! No !' and Mrs Wentworth's lips 
 curled in disgust. < I could never fear that Charles would fall 
 
 K
 
 1 46 THE EARLS DAUGHTER, 
 
 in love with anything so vain and frivolous as Miss Charlton ; 
 but I am afraid of his being led on to say and do foolish things ; 
 to flatter and talk nonsense, and go further than he knows; to 
 flirt, in fact ; and I am afraid of your seeing it, and perhaps 
 being induced to join in it in a certain way. I could not bear 
 that sort of thing, Eleanor; it would be so utterly against my 
 taste, not to put it upon higher grounds.' 
 
 ' Charles likes Miss Charlton very well,' said Eleanor ; ' but 
 he does not really care for her.' 
 
 ' I do not see that it makes much difference whether he does 
 or does not,' replied Mrs Wentworth ; ' for a young man just 
 preparing for ordination to waste his time and lower his char- 
 acter by dancing attendance upon a silly girl whom he does not 
 care for, merely because he wants amusement, is, to say the 
 least, unworthy.' 
 
 ' The Charltons will be going soon,' said Eleanor. ' Lady 
 Charlton talks of spending the winter at Senilhurst, and taking 
 Blanche with her.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' Mrs Wentworth's face brightened instantly. 
 
 ' Yes, it is nearly settled ;' but Eleanor looked as much vexed 
 as her mother was relieved. 
 
 Mrs Wentworth observed the expression of her face : ' My 
 dear child, you must forgive me for being glad : I do feel for 
 you.' 
 
 Eleanor only drew up with an air of reserve, and said, ' I am 
 not disappointed; I have known that it must be so from the 
 beginning.' 
 
 ' It will smooth every difficulty if they go,' continued Mrs 
 Wentworth, evidently trying to be frank and unconstrained ; 
 ' that was why I sent for you, Eleanor, to know if you could tell 
 me anything of their movements. If they were to remain, I 
 must urge your father to make some other arrangement for 
 Charles. I have such a great dread of the intimacy. Can you 
 not understand me ? ' she added, wati'hing Eleanor's counte- 
 nance narrowly. ' I think you must sec yourself how bad it is.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' replied Eleanor, flattered by her mother's confi- 
 dence, ' Adelaide Charlton is not the person to improve him ; but 
 there is more in her, mamma, than you would give her credit for.' 
 
 ' That may be ; but Charles must have a superior wife if he 
 is ever to do anything in life. He must marry a woman whom 
 he respects.' 
 
 ' And loves too,' said Eleanor.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 147 
 
 1 Yes, assuredly ; but the love in which there is no respect is 
 but a broken reed to rest upon. However, I need not take up 
 your time any longer, my love. If Lady Charlton goes soon, 
 all my trouble will be at an end ; and, in the meantime, I must 
 trust to you not to do more than you can help in bringing them 
 together.' 
 
 ' I will not do anything you dislike, dear mamma/ was 
 Eleanor's reply ; ' if you will only look less anxious than you 
 did when I came in.' 
 
 y Anxious, did I ? My face is not generally a tell-tale.' 
 
 ' I understand it always,' answered Eleanor. < You have 
 been uncomfortable very often lately.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth did not contradict the assertion. 
 
 ' I think you would be happier,' added Eleanor, f if the castle 
 was far off ; and yet, mamma,' and she hesitated, < you suffered 
 me to be brought up with Blanche.' 
 
 ' Yes, I did ; possibly it was a mistake.' Mrs Wentworth 
 thought for a few moments, and then continued, ' Yet I acted 
 for the best at the time. When you first went to Mrs Howard 
 I was very ill ; I could not take proper care of you myself. 
 Mrs Howard urged me to let you go for the sake of Lady 
 Blanche, and for her mother's sake. At that time there seemed 
 little probability that Lord Rutherford would ever settle per- 
 manently in England ; or, if he did, that he would choose to 
 reside at Rutherford. The circumstances under which he left 
 it were such that I myself could not have contemplated his 
 return. He has another place in the north ; I imagined that 
 he would have preferred it. Yet it might have been an error, 
 a want of due forethought. O Eleanor, you will not make 
 me regret it ! ' 
 
 Eleanor's feelings were touched by the earnestness with 
 which her mother spoke. ' Mamma ! ' she exclaimed, ' I have 
 been foolish, I know, of late ; but, indeed, you may trust me. 
 I can only learn good from Blanche, and I cannot really be led 
 away by a person like Adelaide Charlton.' 
 
 ' God forbid you ever should be, my love,' replied Mrs Went- 
 worth. ' You do not know all that such an influence brink's : 
 how it lowers, wastes, vitiates the whole tone of the character ; 
 how its effects are felt for years and years. Such a mind as 
 yours, Eleanor, if it is not bent upon the highest objects, de- 
 stroys itself ; it cannot rest in mean pursuits, and it turns 
 inward and gnaws at the root of it* own happiness. And you
 
 1 48 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 may be — shall I tell you what you may be ? — what I have 
 sometimes pleased myself by imagining you to be ? ' 
 
 ' Something much better than I can ever imagine myself, I 
 am sure,' said Cleaner. 
 
 ' Yet nothing beyond your power,' continued her mother. 
 ' A woman with all a woman's tastes, and gentleness, and 
 modesty ; yet earnest, untiring, exalted in your aims, enlarged 
 in your views, sufficient for your own happiness, from having 
 fixed it where alone it may be safely centred, whilst living in 
 the happiness of others, because your whole life is devoted to 
 the promotion of their welfare, and having a power over their 
 minds, because you have kept such a strict watch over your own. 
 That is what you may be.' 
 
 ' And what shall I be, mamma ? ' The question was put in 
 a tone of great thoughtfulness. 
 
 Mrs Wentworth paused, and her voice sank again into its 
 quiet stillness, as she said, ' One only knows.' 
 
 ' But tell me ; help me, if you can,' said Eleanor ; ' tell me 
 what I must be if I am not what you describe. Mamma, it 
 may do me more good than you can think.' 
 
 ' Would you wish to hear ? ' replied Mrs Wentworth. ' You 
 will think me exaggerating, yet I have watched the downward 
 progress of many characters like yours, and the general outline 
 is alike in all. First, self- dissatisfaction and a longing for the 
 respect which might be deserved, and then an endeavour to be 
 satisfied with mere admiration instead ; admiration becoming 
 necessary, and sinking gradually into the craving of a miserabk 
 vanity ; and this changing in old age into a sharp, cynical 
 narrowness of mind, which is wretchedness to itself and others. 
 I am not speaking in the least too strongly, Eleanor. I have 
 seen it, and grieved over it ; and the first symptom has always 
 been that fickleness of action, though not of intention, in little 
 things, which you are always regretting.' 
 
 ' And never amending,' said Eleanor. ' Mamma, I must do 
 so, I will.' The house-bell rang at that moment ; Eleanor 
 coloured deeply. ' It is Adelaide Charlton/ she said. ' I did 
 very wrong ; I asked her to come.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth strove hard not to show her real annoyance. 
 
 ' She shall stay but a few minutes,' continued Eleancr, 
 ' She has only to look over some music, and she knows I shall 
 be busy.' 
 
 Miss Charlton was announced in the drawing-room.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 149 
 
 Mrs Wentworth rose and said she would receive her, and, 
 collecting her letters, was preparing to go, when Dr Went- 
 worth's voice was heard. The meeting at the Union was 
 deferred ; he was returned unexpectedly, and he came to the 
 window to say so. 
 
 ' I want you my dear, particularly. I must have you for a 
 few minutes to go into the village with me.' 
 
 ' Is it really necessary ? There are visitors in the drawing- 
 room.' 
 
 • What visitors ? Only Miss Charlton. Charles and Eleanor 
 will entertain her.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth's conscience smote her for the pride which 
 had made her shut up from her husband the anxieties which 
 she imagined he could not sympathise with. Now, when she 
 wanted his assistance, he was working unknowingly against her. 
 
 ' Indeed, I must have you, my dear,' he continued. ' I am 
 in a hurry.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth could say no more ; but she looked at 
 Eleanor as she joined him, and Eleanor answered the look 
 with, ' Adelaide will only stay a few minutes. I shall not let 
 her do so.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 ' T HOPE I am not interrupting you,' began Adelaide Charlton, 
 -»- as Eleanor welcomed her with a gravity of manner which 
 she could not hide. 
 
 ' Oh ! pray don't name it. I shall find the music I men- 
 tioned almost immediately ; ' and Eleanor began searching for 
 it hurriedly, inquiring at the same time for every one at the 
 castle. 
 
 Adelaide rattled on in her usual style. They must have had 
 a bad night, she supposed, for they all seemed cross ; but she 
 made a point of never inquiring what was the matter. She had 
 left Maude and Blanche in close conversation ; but, of course, 
 she did not know what it was about — they were becoming such 
 desperate friends, it would not do to pry into their secrets. 
 
 Eleanor bent over the music-stand, and regretted that the lost 
 piece of music was not forthcoming ; but promised to look for 
 it, and send it to the castle in the course of the dav.
 
 150 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Oh ! it does not signify ; ' was Adelaide's indifferent reply. 
 ' One never really cares for any particular piece ; I daresay you 
 have a good many that I don't know. May I look ? ' She 
 took up a piece of music, hummed a few notes, thought it 
 seemed pretty, and seated herself at the piano to try it. ' Awfully 
 difficult all this style of music is, and not in good taste, people 
 say ; at least Maude says so, and she is the oracle. After all, 
 instrumental music is worth nothing compared with vocal. How 
 badly your brother and I sang last night ! We really must 
 practise before we exhibit again. Don't you think it would be 
 a good thing to have practising days ? ' 
 
 ' If one had time, it might be/ said Eleanor. 
 
 ' Oh, but we must make time. I have no notion of persons 
 not finding sufficient time for anything they wish. I protest, there 
 is that enchanting trio we were talking of ; you must try it.' 
 
 ' A trio for two persons ! ' said Eleanor, laughing ; ' that will 
 not quite do.' 
 
 ' Never mind ; just try your part.' 
 
 She struck the first few chords ; Eleanor grew hopeless of 
 escape. Adelaide's visit was from her own invitation, and she 
 could not summon courage to shorten it by confessing her 
 engagements. 
 
 1 You very good people are so methodical,' continued Ade- 
 laide ; ' you quite put one to the blush. I declare, to see the 
 way Blanche goes on is enough to convert one into an auto- 
 maton. I must have some music this morning to put me in 
 good humour.' 
 
 ' Can that ever be needed ? ' asked a voice from behind her ; 
 and, to Eleanor's extreme annoyance, her brother joined them. 
 
 Adelaide Charlton's manner showed instantaneously the work- 
 ing of her mind. There was a little blushing, a little bantering, 
 a good many quick upward glances, interspersed with a few 
 downcast modest ones ; some pretty nonsense about music and 
 flowers, and a pretence at shyness, when Mr Wentworth asked 
 her to sing, with an evident disinclination to leave off when she 
 had begun. It was vanity, unmistakable ; and Eleanor stood 
 by and compared Adelaide's flirting with her own dignity ; and, 
 in the pleasure of self-satisfaction, forgot her mother's caution 
 and her own promises. And so the minutes went by, and 
 Eleanor satisfied herself that the waste of time could not be 
 avoided, and therefore it could not be wrong to enjoy it. And 
 she did enjoy it in a measure.
 
 THE EARL'S DA UGHTER. j 5 1 
 
 There is generally something agreeable in that sort of li 
 quick conversation which accompanies music ; and Adelai 
 Charlton was not deficient in talent of a certain kind. She had 
 travelled, and could relate amusing adventures herself, and assist 
 Mr Wcntworth in remembering his ; and she had seen more of 
 the world than Eleanor, and laughed at many of her simple 
 notions ; she was older also, and had been presented at court, 
 and was acquainted with people of rank and fashion. These 
 were all ingredients of influence, especially when mingled with 
 them was the thought, ' Notwithstanding all these advantages, 
 I am the superior.' 
 
 ' And now, Charles, we really must be steady,' was at length 
 Eleanor's faint endeavour to stop the flow of the conversation. 
 ' I am doing very wrong in staying here, and you are doing very 
 ■wrong too, Adelaide. I must be rude, and send you away, or 
 we shall both get into disgrace.' 
 
 Adelaide started from her seat; 'Go, must I ? Well, I sup- 
 pose I have been here an immense time. I did not mean to 
 stay a quarter of an hour. Mr Wentworth, I must trouble you 
 to return my glove : you seem bent upon keeping possession of 
 it; but I am afraid it will not be quite as useful to you as to 
 me.' She held out her hand, and, to her surprise, the glove was 
 given as a matter of course; and Mr Wentworth, turning sud- 
 denly'to his sister, said, in a tone of quiet politeness, 'Eleanor, 
 you do not see — Lady Blanche Evelyn.' 
 
 Blanche was at the window, and Mr Wentworth stepped for- 
 ward to open it. His manner was quite different; thoughtful 
 and respectful, as if some sudden spell had been cast over him. 
 Yet Blanche was thoroughly at her ease, smiled and shook 
 hands, and rallied him upon his musical mania. Perhaps he 
 saw that the words were words of course, spoken to smooth the 
 little stiffness of the party, for there was no real gaiety in what 
 she said. She looked ill and harassed, and when Adelaide 
 declared her intention to return to the castle, Blanche made no 
 remark, and allowed her to say 'Good-bye,' without asking 
 her to wait. So Adelaide, after a little more lingering and 
 sighing and laughing, departed, taking care, when she had 
 gone a few steps, to attract attention by an ' Oh ! Mr Went- 
 worth, I forgot ; ' which drew him after her, and induced him to 
 accompany her more than half-way home. 
 
 Eleanor stood watching them until they were fairly out of 
 sight, and then, going up to Blanche, said, as she stooped to
 
 152 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 kiss her, 'Blanche, I am thankful you are not your cousin Adel- 
 aide.' 
 
 Blanche smiled, and replied, 'Perhaps, I am glad too; and 
 yet that is wrong,' she added, correcting herself; ' though one 
 may be glad one is not forced to lead the same life. But, 
 Eleanor, I was not prepared for your having any one here; and 
 I thought Susan's lesson would be over by this time. If Adel- 
 aide has been with you, that of course is impossible.' 
 
 Eleanor had seldom felt less inclined to attend to lessons, and, 
 as an excuse to herself, said that Susan could do very well 
 without her for the present; she wished first to know what had 
 brought Blanche to the rectory. 
 
 'Business that can wait very well,' replied Blanche; 'so please 
 go, if you have anything to do, and I will sit here and write a 
 letter till you are ready.' 
 
 ' But you look fagged and worried, Blanche — what has been 
 going wrong?' 
 
 The eyes of Blanche filled with tears, but not one was suf- 
 fered to escape, and, avoiding a direct reply, she said, 'I came 
 here partly to tell you that we shall all probably go to Senil- 
 hurst immediately.' 
 
 Eleanor's countenance betokened blank disappointment ; she 
 was not prepared for such a sudden move. 
 
 ' Yes,' continued Blanche, quickly, as if anxious to avoid 
 questions; 'it is my aunt's wish, and I shall vex her if I refuse, 
 and I don't think papa will dislike it. My aunt says it is the 
 
 best thing for me; and I don't much care myself what' 
 
 Her voice failed her, and she burst into tears. 
 
 Eleanor was at her side in an instant, soothing and caressing 
 her, and entreating to be told what was the cause of her grief. 
 Blanche seemed distressed at her own weakness, but had no 
 power of controlling it when she had once given way. 
 
 ' O Eleanor ! ' she exclaimed, ' if they had only told me ; 
 if they had not brought me up in ignorance !' 
 
 ' Ignorance, dearest Blanche ! Of what ?' 
 
 ' Of everything; of what I ought to have known; what all 
 the world knows except myself,' replied Blanche, impetuously ; 
 a feeling of pride mingling unperceived with her sorrow. 
 
 'All the world ! what? how?' inquired Eleanor, frightened 
 at her unusual vehemence. 
 
 ' You know,' continued Blanche, and she grasped her friend's 
 arm nervously, until Eleanor said, ' I can know nothing which
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 153 
 
 you will not tell me ; ' and then Blanche dropped her hand, and 
 leaning her forehead upon the table murmured, ' I am unkind 
 too . and I thought I had self-command !' 
 
 ' You must not have self-command with me, dearest,' said 
 Eleanor. ' If you cannot talk openly to me, whom can you go 
 to?' 
 
 ' No one ; no one,' was the mournful answer. ' But I think 
 I could bear it better if I knew all. O Eleanor ! are you 
 sure? did your mother never talk to you? did she never tell you 
 of — of my own mother — my sweet mother?' — she paused, and 
 her voice sank almost to a whisper ; but it was a whisper clear 
 and thrilling, and Eleanor's cheek turned pale, and a shudder 
 passed through her frame as she heard, ' Eleanor, she was 
 insane V 
 
 There followed a long pause, until Eleanor said, very gently, 
 ' Mamma, if it is true, would tell you all.' 
 
 Blanche shook her head : ' I could not ask her. I had a 
 thought — a foolish one — that you might know.' 
 
 ' No, never. Could I have hidden it from you ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps so : they all did. They thought it right : it was a 
 cruel kindness.' 
 
 ' Are you quite certain it is true ? ' asked Eleanor. 
 
 ' Maude says so ; and I feel it. I understand things now. 
 Oh ! if I could have comforted her but for ona hour ! ' and 
 Blanche groaned in agony for the past, whilst Eleanor trembled 
 at the horrible train of thought which in those few moments had 
 been conjured up for the future. 
 
 Blanche recovered herself by degrees. She related what had 
 passed with Maude, and showed Eleanor how the fact was con- 
 firmed by her mother's papers, and the strange silence and 
 mystery in which everything connected with her was involved. 
 She seemed to shrink from any attempt to persuade her into 
 disbelief. ' It was better,' she said, ' to face the truth at once ; 
 that was what she was now longing to do entirely. A few days 
 r.go she could have gone to her aunt ; but there had been an un- 
 happy misunderstanding ; she scarcely knew how it had arisen ; 
 from some foolish changeableness of her own, she believed. It 
 had worried Lady Charlton extremely, and she had not re- 
 covered it. There is no one besides her, except your mother,' 
 continued Blanche, and Eleanor assented. She did not venture 
 to ask why Lord Rutherford's name was not mentioned. 
 
 ' And why should you not go to mamma ? ' she said, as
 
 154 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 Blanche again repeated her longing wish to hear the particulars 
 of her mother's history. 
 
 The answer was given with some reluctance : ' Because I am 
 afraid of her.' 
 
 ' Afraid of her ! so good, and gentle, and charitable as she is. 
 O Blanche ! ' 
 
 ' Yet still I am afraid. Do you know what it is to have an 
 intuitive perception of being misunderstood — misjudged ? Her 
 interest in you absorbs her ; and well it may. It is a mother's 
 love.' Blanche turned away her head to hide her unbidden 
 tears. ' I am very wrong to regret,' she added ; ' only some- 
 times I think that, if my mother had lived, I might have been 
 better ; but then ' 
 
 It was an awful thought which suggested itself to both, and 
 Eleanor, willing to divert it, said, ' Even a mother's love, 
 Blanche, cannot always be our safeguard.' 
 
 ' It seems so, as if it must be,' replied Blanche, musingly. 
 ' Your home, and its quietness and peace ; all your time marked 
 out, and your duties fixed, and a friend to go to always ; — it 
 must be safer than mine.' 
 
 Eleanor made no direct answer. ' When do you go to Senil- 
 hurst ? ' she said, abruptly. 
 
 ' Directly, I think ; but the day is not fixed.' 
 
 This was said with an air of such melancholy indifference as 
 to recall Eleanor from all thoughts of herself. 
 
 1 You must be made happier before you go, Blanche,' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' That cannot be. I must try and bear it, and the pain may 
 lessen.' 
 
 ' But not the ignorance and mystery ; and, if you chose, 
 there would be nothing easier than to learn everything. Mamma 
 would tell you every little detail, if she thought you were aware 
 of the truth ; and you would feel her value then.' 
 
 Blanche recollected the request for her mother's picture, and 
 was silent. 
 
 Just then Mrs Wentworth came into the room, accompanied 
 by Susan. Blanche looked nervous and agitated. Mrs Went- 
 worth spoke to her, but seemed to have an instant perception 
 that all was not right ; and addressing Eleanor, reminded her 
 that the morning was fast passing away, and that Susan's 
 lessons could not possibly be finished in time if she was left 
 to herself. ' I make no apology to Lady Blanche,' she added ;
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 155 
 
 ' she will not require it. I am glad you have been detained 
 by her.' A meaning stress was laid upon the pronoun, and 
 Eleanor's sincere conscience would not suffer her to misunder- 
 stand it. 
 
 ' Blanche has been here but a short time,' she said. ' Adel- 
 aide Charlton stayed longer than I thought she would, and 
 Charles came in, and they sang.' 
 
 1 Oh ! ' 
 
 There was no further remark or comment. Eleanor kissed 
 her mother, and the kiss was returned warmly ; but the sigh 
 which accompanied it spoke volumes of disappointment. Mrs 
 Wentworth sat down when she was gone ; her manner was less 
 self-possessed than usual. She asked a few unconnected ques- 
 tions, and when Blanche mentioned the plan of going to Senil- 
 hurst directly, she did not appear to take in the idea — her mind 
 was wandering to another subject. At length Blanche asked if 
 she might stay and write a letter, and occupy herself till Eleanor 
 was at leisure again ; and this seemed to put Mrs Wentworth at 
 ease, and she placed the portfolio for her, and laughed at the 
 bad pens which she had to offer, and afterwards, saying she 
 would leave her at liberty, went away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 i "\ 7"OUR master is much better this morning, Pearson,' said 
 
 jl Lady Charlton, addressing the civil man-servant, as he 
 stood aside, condensing himself into the smallest possible com- 
 pass whilst she passed. 
 
 ' Rather better, my lady. I am afraid he has been in a good 
 deal of pain the last half-hour.' 
 
 ' But he is better, Pearson; a good deal. Mr Stone said so 
 yesterday. He will be able to go to Senilhurst soon.' 
 
 ' Certainly, my lady ; certainly, if you wish it. Did you say 
 soon ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, very soon ; next week. Your master will be quite 
 ready for the journey by that time.' 
 
 ' Certainly, my lady ; ' and a faint smile played upon the lips 
 of the well-instructed Pearson. ' The change is to do him 
 good, I imagine, my lady.'
 
 156 THE EARUS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Of course ; and this weather will do very well for travelling ; 
 later in the season might be running a risk.' 
 
 ' Certainly, my lady ; and it might be bad for your ladyship 
 and the young ladies.' 
 
 ' Yes; in fact, we must be at Senilhurst next week. Lord 
 Rutherford and Lady Blanche will accompany us.' Pearson 
 bowed low. ' I shall see your master presently, Pearson.' 
 Another bow. 
 
 Lady Charlton went to the drawing-room, and Pearson re- 
 paired to the library, to see if the fire was getting low. The 
 glance with which Sir Hugh repaid his attention was discourag- 
 ing ; so were his words. As usual, they were a reproach for 
 the length of time he had been left, and, as usual, Pearson 
 made no attempt at explanation, and only answered, ' Very 
 sorry, Sir Hugh; extremely sorry; might I be allowed? — I 
 think I could put your pillow more comfortable.' 
 
 1 Not at all ; I don't want to be comfortable. Left alone 
 two full hours ! it 's unbearable.' 
 
 ' I was certainly forgetful,' began Pearson. 
 
 ' Forgetful ! idiot, you forget everything ! Where 's my 
 medicine ?' 
 
 Pearson poured it out, and, as he handed it to his master, 
 ventured to observe that the day was so fine, he hoped it might 
 do for a drive. 
 
 ' Where is the good of driving?' muttered Sir Hugh ; 'the 
 hills stop one at every half-mile.' 
 
 ' Exactly what I was saying to the bailiff just now, Sir Hugh. 
 Mr Denham, said I, this place is very different from Senilhurst. 
 There we have a fine open country, where my master can drive 
 about and get plenty of fresh air.; beautiful soft in the valleys, 
 bracing upon the downs. Trust me, if you could come to 
 Senilhurst, you would never wish to go back to Rutherford.' 
 
 ' Then you talked nonsense, Pearson,' exclaimed Sir Hugh, 
 more mildly than before. 
 
 Pearson did not seem to notice the interruption, but went on, 
 ' Mr Denham is hard of belief ; a very narrow mind ; never 
 lias travelled at all, Sir Hugh. He wouldn't credit a word I told 
 him of your crop of turnips the year before last.' Sir Hugh 
 leaned his head upon his hand in a soothed attitude. 'Wonder- 
 ful, those turnips were !' continued Pearson ; 'but, as I told Mr 
 Denham, — my master, said I, understands these things ; he's 
 an experiencing gentleman ; he takes nothing upon trust.'
 
 THE EAR US DAUGHTER 157 
 
 * And Denham wouldn't believe you, eh ? ' said Sir Hugh. 
 
 ' Wouldn't believe a word,' said Pearson ; ' said there never 
 was such a crop known, and he couldn't understand it. But, 
 said I, Mr Denham, it's not for you and me to try and under- 
 stand these things. My master is a man of science, and what 
 lie does he does upon principle — strict principle ; the turnips, 
 d'ye see, grew upon principle.' 
 
 ' Hem ! nonsense !' muttered Sir Hugh, whilst the frown upon 
 his forehead gradually subsided, and a pleased smile stole over 
 his features. ' Why don't you bring him to Senilhurst, Pear- 
 son, instead of trying to talk him over here.' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly, Sir Hugh ; it 's the only thing to be done ; 
 but, as I said, if we are to stay the winter at Rutherford, there 
 is no good in thinking of Senilhurst.' 
 
 ' And who said we were to spend the winter at Rutherford ?' 
 inquired Sir Hugh, sharply. 
 
 ' I understood from my lady,' began Pearson ; but Sir Hugh 
 broke in, ' I have told you fifty times before, Pearson, that you 
 are to understand from me — your lady knows nothing about the 
 matter.' 
 
 ' I imagined it was my lady's wish,' began Pearson again. 
 
 ' And what did you think then was my wish ? Did you 
 suppose that I meant to be cooped up here for the next six 
 months, with nothing to do but to follow your lady's beck and 
 call?' 
 
 ' My lady seemed to think it was fixed,' continued Pearson, 
 1 and of course it was not my place to say anything ; though 1 
 could see, like every one else, Sir Hugh, that it would be better 
 for you to be at home.' 
 
 ' And what is to hinder me from going home ?' inquired Sir 
 Hugh. 
 
 ' Nothing, sir, nothing ; if you desire it : only my lady ' 
 
 ' Don't talk to me of your lady ; my will is her will.' 
 
 ' Unquestionably, Sir Hugh ; and no doubt my lady's health, 
 and that of the young ladies, would be materially benefited. As 
 I said to Mr Denham, Senilhurst air is quite renovating.' 
 
 ' And what did Denham say to that ? ' 
 
 ' He was amazed, Sir Hugh; never saw a man more so. Mr 
 Pearson, said he, Senilhurst must be a paradise. Mr Denham, 
 said I, it is.' 
 
 'Hem!' muttered Sir Hugh; ' Denham 's got more sense 
 than I gave him credit for. To see ho*" he manages the estate
 
 158 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 here, one would think him an ignorant booby. Young Went- 
 worth knows much more about farming than he does.' 
 
 ' Mr Wentworth has had great advantages/ observed Pearson, 
 ' going about with a gentleman of such experience as yourself, 
 Sir Hugh.' 
 
 ' Wentworth's a sensible fellow,' continued Sir Hugh ; ' he 
 has his eyes about him, and he 's not conceited. He has my 
 geology pamphlet by heart ; in fact, he 's quite the life of the 
 place.' 
 
 ' Mr Wentworth would take a great interest in the farming at 
 Senilhurst,' said Pearson, insinuatingly. 
 
 ' Yes, he might ; he would, I think. There would be a good 
 deal for him to learn there ; ' and Sir Hugh fell into a short 
 reverie, which was apparently caused by some difficulty in the 
 contemplated return home, as he tapped his finger on the table 
 and began reckoning — ' Lady Charlton, one ; Maude and Ady, 
 three ; young Wentworth, four ; it 's one too many.' 
 
 ' The earl and Lady Blanche will have a great loss in your 
 absence, Sir Hugh,' began Pearson, a little alarmed at not hear- 
 ing their names mentioned. 
 
 ' Well, yes ; I suppose they will,' said Sir Hugh, stroking his 
 chin ; ' the earl and I have pursuits in common ; we are both 
 literary men.' 
 
 ' There is a thought of his lordship and Lady Blanche remain- 
 ing here through the winter, I suppose,' said Pearson ; ' at least 
 my lady seemed to say so the other day.' 
 
 ' What should your lady know about it ? ' exclaimed Sir 
 Hugh ; ' the earl has no fixed plans, he told me so confiden- 
 tially. If I were to ask him to Senilhurst he would go.' 
 
 ' And be delighted, no doubt,' replied Pearson ; ' he has not 
 been looking at all well lately.' 
 
 ' No wonder, living at this place. He and young Wentworth 
 together.' Sir Hugh mused again, but whether upon the travel- 
 ling plans, or the probable indignation of Lady Charlton if he 
 presumed to give Mr Wentworth an invitation to Senilhurst, it 
 is impossible to say. The difficulty which perplexed him, what- 
 ever it was, seemed, however, to be insurmountable, for after the 
 silence of a few minutes he exclaimed, ' It won't do ; no, it 
 won't do ; and, after all, spring is the best time fol> seeing a 
 place. If we stay here a few weeks longer we shall help them 
 on into the winter, and they can come to us early in the spring.' 
 
 Pearson was in dismay ; but he was a man of singular patience,
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 159 
 
 and, having reached the point from which lie had started, he 
 steadily set forth to traverse the same ground again ; pulling Sir 
 Hugh one way, in the conviction that he would be sure to go the 
 other, until at length he had once more brought him to face the 
 possibility of removing to Senilhurst immediately, taking Lord 
 Rutherford and Lady Blanche with them, and giving an indirect 
 invitation to Mr Wentworth to follow at his earliest convenience. 
 This last resolution, however, Sir Hugh did not fail to qualify 
 by repeating, ' I shan't invite him ; I hate regular invitations. 
 Only if he likes it, of course he will be welcome. Mind, Pear- 
 son, I have no intention of inviting him.' 
 
 Pearson assented both to the letter and the spirit of this 
 declaration, and having arranged his master's pillows for about 
 the twentieth time since the conversation began, ventured to 
 suggest that Lady Charlton might be glad to know of Sir Hugh's 
 definite plan. A gracious permission was given, and Sir Hugh 
 raised himself in his arm-chair, to look imposing, and spreading 
 a blank sheet of paper before him, chose a new pen that he 
 might make a legible list of imperative orders for the journey. 
 
 ' Sir Hugh would be glad to speak with you, my lady,' said 
 Pearson, as he met Lady Charlton at the foot of the stairs. His 
 face was impenetrable, but his self-satisfied tone showed that all 
 difficulties had been smoothed away. 
 
 ' I will be with him directly,' was Lady Charlton's soft reply ; 
 and Pearson went off to the servants' hall, charmed at his own 
 cleverness, in having ruled his master, pleased his mistress, and 
 been instrumental in suggesting an idea, which he had good 
 reason to think would gratify one at least of the young ladies ; 
 and all without committing himself. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 TT was not a long interview between Sir Hugh and Lady 
 Charlton; no interviews of this kind ever were long; for 
 Lady Charlton, when she had once gained a point, took care 
 not to dwell sufficiently upon it to give time for a change of 
 feeling. The determination of returning to Senilhurst was espe- 
 cially important to her at this moment, as the neighbourhood of 
 the rector)' was, in her eyes, becoming every day more unde«
 
 i6o THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 sirable. Even if the earl and Blanche persisted in remaining 
 at Rutherford, she had resolved to go; but independently of 
 her own pleasure, their society would, she knew, be a great in- 
 ducement to Sir Hugh to consent to her wishes. His vanity 
 would be flattered by the idea of showing Blanche his own 
 place and his own plans ; and, as she had calculated upon this 
 as the easy mode of obtaining her point, she was the more pro- 
 voked at the indecision which Blanche had evinced. Still she 
 did not doubt of gaining her object eventually. Pearson's skill 
 was almost always successful in winning Sir Hugh's consent, 
 even against his favourite wishes; and Blanche was too gentle 
 not to be easily brought round. Yet Lady Charlton allowed 
 no surprise or satisfaction to be visible when she entered the 
 library. She was quietly indifferent, and even put a few 
 obstacles in the way of a sudden removal ; obstacles which, of 
 course, only strengthened Sir Hugh's resolution, and gave him 
 a sense of power in showing the clever way in which he could 
 surmount them. 
 
 ' Lord Rutherford and Blanche must be talked over,' he said ; 
 and Lady Charlton agreed ; not even a smile betraying that the 
 suggestion had been made to them previously. 
 
 The day of departure was next to be fixed. Sir Hugh named 
 it — determined the hour of starting — wrote down the names of 
 the few villages through which they were to pass before they 
 reached a railway station, and the time which the distance 
 might be expected to take ; and then proceeded to copy out the 
 after details of the journey from a railway guide, Lady Charlton 
 assisting him by reading out 1 1 "25, 12*50, &c, in due succes- 
 sion. 
 
 When, at length, the word Senilhurst was written, in legible 
 characters, at the bottom of the paper, announcing the termina- 
 tion of the journey, Sir Hugh threw himself back in his chair, 
 and exclaimed, 'There, my dear; now I think I have done my 
 part. I have saved you all the trouble of arrangement, and 
 you will have nothing in the world to do but just to obey orders 
 — the easiest thing of all — just to obey orders — nothing more. 
 We leave this place at half-past eight precisely; we reach 
 Senilhurst at twenty minutes past six. Don't trouble yourself; 
 don't distress yourself about anything : you see, when a man is 
 once accustomed to this sort of thing, it becomes quite easy. 
 You may tell Maude and Ady, if you like it ; but it will be as 
 well to leave Rutherford to me. Gentlemen always manage
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 161 
 
 these things best with each other. I shall hint my wishes 
 gently, and bring him round by degrees.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it might be the best way/ said Lady Charlton, and 
 she rose to leave the room. 
 
 ' Stop, my dear Frances ; Lady Charlton, you are in such a 
 hurry. Sit down, will you. One thing we have forgotten — 
 dinner. Let me see ; we start at half-past eight ; we reach 
 Walton at 10; Ditchley, 12-35; Hoxley Road, 2*40; Sun- 
 bridge, 5" 1 5, reckoning a quarter of an hour for delay ; Senil- 
 hurst, 6-20 ; that leaves us forty minutes — one hour and forty 
 minutes till eight o'clock. Will one hour and forty minutes be 
 sufficient ? Consider now — to settle yourselves — dress — be, in 
 fact, quite ready for dinner ! Can you promise to be in the 
 drawing-room by eight? 5 
 
 Lady Charlton thought there would be no difficulty. 
 
 ' Very well, then, that is another point decided. You may 
 write to Mrs Corrie, and tell her to have dinner ready at eight 
 precisely. And, stay, don't I hear Lord Rutherford's voice ?' 
 The earl opened the door. ' The very person I wanted to sec. 
 I must have a few words with you; I must consult you.' 
 
 But Lord Rutherford interrupted him. ' I beg your pardon ; 
 I will return to you, but, at this moment, I have pressing busi- 
 ness. Lady Charlton, can you give me a few moments of your 
 leisure?' The tone was unusually haughty, and before Lady 
 Charlton had time to answer, he was gone. 
 
 Lady Charlton followed him instantly, in spite of Sir Hugh's 
 entreaties that she would wait and consider what further 
 arrangements were to be made. 
 
 Lord Rutherford went before her till he reached his private 
 study, the door of which he opened, and motioned to her to 
 enter it, and then closing and bolting it carefully, he sat down 
 opposite to her. Lady Charlton turned pale. There was 
 something in his countenance which would, in itself, have been 
 sufficient to alarm her; a look of hardly repressed indignation, 
 reproach, and over-excited feeling ; a curling lip — a frowning 
 brow — a fire in his flashing eye, only softened by the inde- 
 scribable expression of mental anguish that pervaded his whole 
 countenance. He did not speak for some moments, but sat 
 resting his forehead upon his hand. Lady Charlton tried to 
 shake off her fear. She went up to him, laid her hand upon his 
 shoulder, and said, in a light, unconstrained tone, ' You must not 
 treat me in this way. I must know at once what is the matter.' 
 
 I.
 
 1 62 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 He looked up and said sternly, ' You can tell.' 
 
 Lady Charlton's tone was unchanged as she replied, ' You 
 are mistaken. I know nothing that has happened to put you 
 into this strange mood.' 
 
 'Not that you have deceived me — betrayed me — broken your 
 most solemn promise ? ' 
 
 A momentary indignation clouded Lady Charlton's face, but 
 she subdued the rising feeling, and said gravely, but calmly, 
 ' My dear Rutherford, this is not language which I ought to 
 hear. I have not betrayed or deceived you, or broken any 
 solemn promise ; and I have not the most remote idea what it 
 is you refer to. I must insist upon your explaining yourself 
 more clearly.' 
 
 ' You have told her,' he said, ' you have done the very thing 
 which' — he stopped, and Lady Charlton said eagerly, 'Blanche? 
 do you mean that she knows ? ' 
 
 ' All that I would have kept from her at any sacrifice. 
 Frances, I thought I could have trusted you better.' 
 
 Lady Charlton looked extremely pained, and the colour 
 rushed to her cheeks as she said, hesitatingly, ' It was not I 
 who told her.' 
 
 ' No,' exclaimed the earl, ' it was not you ; it was Maude. 
 But from whom did Maude learn such facts ? and who put it 
 into my darling's head to inquire ? ' 
 
 Lady Charlton recovered from her embarrassment when this 
 question was asked reproachfully. 
 
 ' You are still speaking mysteries,' she said ; ' if you will say 
 clearly what you refer to, I will give you the best explanation I can.' 
 
 ' They are simple facts,' replied the earl, sarcastically ; 
 ' Blanche was missing this morning when I wanted her ; I went 
 to her room, and found her in an agony of grief. When I 
 would have forced her to tell me what distressed her, she said 
 — you know what she said. She knew it. Her whole life is 
 embittered — her happiness is blighted — her love for me — but 1 
 will not think of that — I dare not.' 
 
 ' And Maude told her ? ' inquired Lady Charlton. 
 
 « Yes, Maude told her.' 
 
 ' And what ? how much does Blanche know ? ' 
 
 ' Do you think I could bear to ask ? ' exclaimed the earl, 
 bitterly. ' Was it a story that I could endure to have the 
 details repeated ; that I could listen patiently whilst my child 
 described her own misery ? '
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 163 
 
 4 It might have been as well,' said Lady Charlton, coldly ; 
 ' you might have spared me much pain, and yourself much 
 after reproach for injustice. Maude has heard from me little 
 beyond what all the world is acquainted with. What she may 
 have guessed or learned from other sources, I cannot answer 
 for. She is of an inquisitive disposition ; from a child she was 
 strangely interested in the fate of my most unhappy sister. To 
 satisfy her, I told her the bare fact of her melancholy depression 
 of spirits ; but of other sufferings,' — and Lady Charlton's voice 
 became eager, and her eye kindled as she went on — 'of neglect, 
 loneliness, disappointed affection, trials which crushed her 
 intellect and brought her to an early grave, I said nothing.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford sank upon a chair and groaned. 
 
 ' It may seem cruel to upbraid you now with an error of judg- 
 ment,' continued Lady Charlton ; ' but in my own justification, I 
 must remind you that you were long since warned against the mis- 
 take of keeping from Blanche the secret of her mother's history.' 
 
 ' I did not wish to keep it from her,' exclaimed the earl, 
 starting from his seat ; i but I would have prepared her for it 
 gradually. I would, yes,' he added, his voice sinking from its 
 tone of proud excitement into an accent of the most mournful 
 tenderness, ' I would have won her to myself, — I would have 
 made myself her all, and then I would have appealed to her 
 love, — her reverence, — her devotion, — for pardon.' 
 
 • You must have had sympathies in common first,' said Lady 
 Charlton, with a quiet sarcasm which escaped her almost in- 
 voluntarily. 
 
 The earl writhed under the censure which he knew was 
 intended, yet he answered firmly, ' We have many, — art, and 
 taste, and refinement.' 
 
 ' And religion ! ' added Lady Charlton. 
 
 Lord Rutherford bit his lip, and was silent. 
 
 ' That is the key to her affections,' continued Lady Charlton ; 
 ' without it I fear you may find the barrier between you greater 
 than you are aware of.' 
 
 The earl regarded her steadily as if he would have said, Do 
 not try me too far ; but Lady Charlton knew her own power, — 
 the power which almost necessarily accompanies the knowledge 
 of a strong mind's weakness,— and she went on, ' If it were 
 possible to humour her upon the point ; — if you could, at what- 
 ever sacrifice, bring yourself even to appear ' — but the earl 
 broke in upon the observation.
 
 1 64 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Appear ! — to Blanche !- — to my own child !— appear to be 
 what I am not ? Frances, how little you understand us 
 both !' 
 
 ' Blanche, at least, I understand,' said Lady Charlton, calmly, 
 — ' she is like her mother.' 
 
 The name acted like an electric shock upon Lord Rutherford, 
 ' Yes,' he exclaimed, shuddering, ' like her in form — in feature 
 - — in mind — in fate.' The last word sank into a whisper. 
 
 ' There is little fear of it,' replied Lady Charlton, ' except in 
 your own imagination, and in possible circumstances, which are 
 entirely under your control. Loneliness and want of sympathy 
 preyed upon poor Emily's mind. There was no positive heredi- 
 tary disease. Her case might be the case of any one in the 
 same situation. Loneliness, Blanche will never feel ; want of 
 sympathy she may not, if 
 
 ' If,' repeated the earl, bitterly. ' I tell you, Frances, I have 
 not the power, even if I had the will, to deceive my sweet child. 
 Pure-minded, simple, transparent and true as she is, the very 
 earnestness of her own feelings must make her alive to hypocrisy 
 in others. Would not the tone of my voice, the turn of my 
 sentences, — would not every action of my life betray me ? No, 
 better far that she should see me as I am— admire me for 
 what I am — even hate me, — hate me, if it were possible, for 
 what I am not, — than be the dupe of professions which must, 
 sooner or later, be discovered, and bring wretchedness upon us 
 both.' 
 
 ' As you will,' replied Lady Charlton. ' It would be useless 
 to try and persuade you that I do not wish you either to deceive 
 or make a profession. All that I desire is, that you should not 
 shock her — prejudices, as you call them — principles, as I call 
 them.' She paused, but the earl was silent. ' You make the 
 same sacrifice to the world continually,' pursued Lady Charlton : 
 ' you mix M'ith persons whom you dislike ; you join in amuse- 
 ments which do not interest you.' 
 
 ' Yes/ interrupted the earl, vehemently ; ' I make a sacrifice 
 to the world, which the world sanctions and understands. I 
 speak its own language, and take advantage of its permitted 
 customs. It is not deceived by civilities and professions. But 
 religion — Frances, I was never a hypocrite. If I had been, I 
 might have spared myself the bitterness of this hour.' 
 
 ' I think you arc unnecessarily anxious," replied Lady 
 Charlton.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 165 
 
 The earl did not notice the remark. He was engaged in his 
 own reflections, and in an under-tone he said, ' Poor child ! one 
 could almost be inclined to envy her.' 
 
 < Can you envy what you consider error ? ' replied Lady 
 Charlton. 
 
 ' Error !' repeated the earl, musingly. 
 
 ' You think it so/ said Lady Charlton. 
 
 He looked up quickly : ' Have you never, Frances, watched 
 a sunset, and seen mountains and islands, and glittering lakes 
 amongst the clouds, and looked till you believed — till you almost 
 knew them to be real ? So have I watched Blanche — daily, 
 hourly, since my return. She has been to me a vision of beauty 
 and purity beyond all that I have known, or could have dreamt ; 
 and I have gazed upon her until almost I could persuade myself 
 that her enthusiasm was reality.' 
 
 ' It is real, doubtless, to a certain extent,' replied Lady Charl- 
 ton. ' Blanche is young, and a little carried away by feeling ; 
 but her principles are unquestionably sound and high ; and we 
 ought to be most grateful to Mrs Howard for having made her 
 what she is.' 
 
 A sudden check seemed to have been given to Lord Ruther- 
 ford's earnestness. He drew himself up coldly, and said, ' We 
 have wandered very far from our first subject. I should be 
 glad to be quite assured that you have not disobeyed my 
 wishes.' 
 
 ' You are really provoking,' replied Lady Charlton, petulantly. 
 ' I could never have taken upon myself such a responsibility. 
 Blanche must have had her suspicions previously raised, and 
 then exaggerated what Maude told her.' Lady Charlton 
 stopped, and, after considering for a moment, added — ' You 
 told me you had given her her mother's papers.' 
 
 ' Yesterday : it was an impulse, after a conversation, a few 
 words only which passed between us. I felt they might interest 
 her, for I saw she longed for sympathy, and I thought they might 
 be something of a bond of closer union between us. But I had 
 long before determined upon doing so when I could summon 
 resolution.' 
 
 ' They must have betrayed the secret,' said Lady Charlton. 
 ' Impossible ! There were a few letters of my own, includ- 
 ing some written years ago, and a journal ; you must remember 
 it. I thought it might please Blanche ; but there was little in it 
 beyond extracts.'
 
 1 66 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Are you sure that was all ? ' inquired Lady Charlton. 
 
 ' Certain. I destroyed every paper which was in any way 
 painful before I left England.' 
 
 ' Then it must have been Blanche's own fancy,' said Lady 
 Charlton, ' or ' 
 
 The earl turned to her hastily ; ' Or whom ? — what ? ' 
 
 ' Or Mrs Wentworth ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' exclaimed Lord Rutherford, as if the idea had in an 
 instant brought conviction to his mind ; ' yes, it must have been 
 her. How could I have been so blind ? But I thought she 
 knew my wishes through you.' 
 
 ' I wrote to her/ said Lady Charlton, ' when you first thought 
 of returning to Rutherford, impressing upon her the necessity 
 of caution. Her reply was stiff and unsatisfactory, like every- 
 thing she does or says ; but I certainly could not have imagined 
 her capable of telling Blanche what you wanted to keep from 
 her.' 
 
 ' She supposed it her duty, perhaps/ said Lord Rutherford, 
 with a sneer. ' She is very much bent upon duty.' 
 
 ' Her own, and other persons' too, in this case/ observed 
 Lady Charlton ; ' but you must not be hard upon her. Re- 
 member, we have as yet only suspicion.' 
 
 ' It shall be certainty, one way or the other, soon/ exclaimed 
 the earl ; and, without adding another word, he seized his hat, 
 opened the window, and the next minute was walking at a rapid 
 pace down the steep path which led to the rectory. 
 
 Lady Charlton looked after him for a few seconds, and then, 
 murmuring to herself, ' Impetuous as ever! but I have diverted 
 his thoughts for the present/ she went to seek Maude, and give 
 her a maternal and not very gentle reproof, for the extreme im- 
 prudence which had led her to divulge facts only a portion of 
 which had as yet been intended to reach the ears of Blanche. 
 
 Lord Rutherford and Mrs Wentworth disliked each other, as 
 persons must do who, without mutual sympathy or respect, have 
 been compelled by circumstances to learn the secrets of each 
 other's lives, without caring to know the secrets of the heart. 
 Years before, when Lord Rutherford had brought his bride to 
 her stately home, and offered her luxury and gaiety, she had 
 turned from all to seek the companionship of Mrs Wentworth. 
 The earl was not jealous — he did not love sufficiently to care 
 where his wife found happiness, as long as he was not called 
 upon to give up his own wishes to contribute to it ; but he
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 167 
 
 chafed at the strictness of Mrs Wentworth's principles, dreaded 
 her influence, and was repulsed by the coldness of her manner — 
 and the aversion was quickly reciprocal. If Mrs Wentworth 
 reverenced the Countess of Rutherford for her piety, and pitied 
 her for her lonely position, she could scarcely feel cordial to- 
 wards the selfish, worldly husband, who by civil unkindness 
 blighted her hopes and mocked her affections. And, as years 
 went on, and absence and neglect did their fatal work in wreck- 
 ing, not only the peace, but the mind of the unhappy countess, 
 the first feeling of dislike almost necessarily deepened into in- 
 tensity. 
 
 But that time was long gone by. The Countess of Ruther- 
 ford was resting in her quiet grave, safe from the weariness of 
 disappointment, and the bitterness of unrequited love ; and the 
 earl was returned to his home, to begin, as it were, a new life, 
 and repay the debt which he owed to the memory of his wife by 
 the devoted affection which he lavished upon her child. The 
 past was forgotten — so it seemed to many but himself; for- 
 gotten by the countess' relations ; forgotten, if it had ever been 
 remembered, by the world. Yet, was it so ? Does the tide of 
 life indeed sweep by and bear away all traces of the joys and 
 griefs, the good and evil, of our vanished years ; or is there, 
 even upon earth, a record of the deeds of former days, written 
 upon the memories of our friends and companions, and bearing 
 a witness which few can recollect and feel towards us as if such 
 things had never been ? 
 
 But Lord Rutherford did Mrs Wentworth great injustice, 
 when he considered her capable of biassing the mind of his 
 daughter in any way against himself ; or even of endeavouring 
 to fix her affections upon her mother's memory at his expense. 
 Even if Mrs Wentworth had felt for Blanche as she had once 
 felt for the countess, she would have shrunk from such an act 
 as worse than cruelty. But, in truth, she was not sufficiently 
 attracted by the gentle girl, who seemed to have no will but 
 her father's, to attempt to gain an influence over her. She was in- 
 terested in Blanche for her mother's sake and for Eleanor's ; but 
 being a person of strong impulse and prepossessions, and pecu- 
 liarly alive to the impressions which she made upon others, she 
 could not help seeing, from the very beginning of their acquaint- 
 ance, that Blanche was not likely to seek her confidence. This 
 was an offence which Mrs Wentworth was not inclined easily 
 to overlook. It awoke a sense of injustice, as if something was
 
 1 68 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 denied her which she had a right to claim. Her natural still- 
 ness and reserve also made her seek for the opposite qualities 
 in others ; and symptoms of shyness, especially in young people, 
 were generally attributed to some instinctive difference of feel- 
 ing, caused possibly by her own defect of manner, which it would 
 be useless to endeavour to overcome. Thus it was that, when 
 Mrs Wentworth was met with more than her own cordiality, 
 she could love, and love intensely ; but when she did not love, 
 she was indifferent, and not unfrequently prejudiced. 
 
 Lord Rutherford knew nothing of all this. He was not an 
 observer of human nature in general ; and seldom took the trouble 
 to think what people were like, or why they pleased or displeased 
 him. A spoilt child from infancy, he only knew what offended 
 his taste, or shocked his self-esteem, and avoided it. It was 
 always an effort to him to be with Mrs Wentworth, and he would 
 have shunned, instead of seeking, an interview, if he had not been 
 carried forward by indignation and something like revenge. For 
 it is pleasant to our unchecked natural instincts to have a clear 
 cause of complaint against a person whom we dislike, and yet 
 respect ; and, by the time the earl had reached the parsonage, he 
 had worked himself up into the persuasion, not only that the 
 accusation against Mrs Wentworth was true, but that no extenua- 
 tion could be offered. 
 
 Blanche saw him pass the drawing-room window as she sat 
 writing her letter and waiting for Eleanor, but she did not go to 
 meet him. His look of anguish as he turned away from her, 
 when in their short morning interview she told him the cause of 
 her distress, was still present to her recollection, and she dreaded 
 to encounter it again. In her simplicity, she could not read its 
 entire meaning ; but it had warned her that the subject must 
 never again be alluded to, unless by him. The earl was shown 
 into Mrs Wentworth's morning-room ; and through the thin 
 partition Blanche could hear his voice, as the conversation began 
 — first formal, and subdued, then gradually rising into energy 
 and excitement ; whilst Mrs Wentworth's answers seemed only 
 rather more decided than usual. The interview was soon over ; 
 Blanche heard, as she supposed, the parting words, and a pause 
 followed. She thought her father was gone ; but as she drew 
 near the window to see, she again caught Mrs Wentworth's voice. 
 The words were distinctly audible — ' Your lordship must forgive 
 me, if I earnestly warn you to be cautious. No one knows better 
 than myself the many reasons for being so ; and in pity to your
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 169 
 
 child, you must remember, that the germ of the evil, at least, may 
 be hereditary.' 
 
 There was a faint, sharp cry of exceeding miser)', and Blanche 
 fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THAT evening, as twilight shades were gathering over the 
 sky, and repose was settling upon the lovely valley of 
 Rutherford — as happy children were returning from their play, 
 and the husbandman was preparing to enjoy his evening meal, 
 and the sleep which ' to the labouring man is sweet, whether he 
 eat little or much ' — the young heiress of all that wealth, beauty, 
 and prosperity can bestow lay stretched upon her couch, 
 striving to chasten her rebellious heart, and bring every gloomy 
 thought and fruitless wish into submission to the will of her 
 Maker. 
 
 Poor Blanche ! she had not known till that hour that it was 
 possible to feel more intensely for herself than for others. Un- 
 selfish, confiding, humble-minded, she had lived for her fellow- 
 creatureSj and in their joys and sorrows had found her own. But 
 there are griefs which encompass us with a barrier that shuts 
 out human sympathy, and forbids us to find relief in the thought 
 that our affliction is less than that of many around us. ' The 
 heart knoweth its own bitterness ; ' and in those seasons of trial 
 it is incapable of estimating comparative wretchedness. 
 
 Blanche lay quite still, her hands clasped tightly together, and 
 her eyes firmly shut ; occasionally her lips moved, and the mo- 
 mentary contraction of the forehead, or a nervous action of the 
 fingers, gave indication of some passing thought of misery, but 
 the expression of the face was that of calm hopelessness. There 
 was no one near her, no one watching her — the one wish she had 
 expressed was for solitude ; solitude with Him ' to whom all 
 hearts are open, and from whom no secrets are hid.' 
 
 The door opened slowly, and Lord Rutherford stole gently to 
 her side. Blanche just opened her eyes and closed them again 
 instantly. He drew near and knelt down beside her, and took 
 her clammy hand in his, and she turned her face towards him 
 and tried to smile: but the parched lips quivered, and a mist
 
 l 7 o THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 gathered over her soft, dark eyes, and then the bitter tears flowed 
 silently and fast. 
 
 ' Blanche,' said the earl, ' are you better?' 
 His voice was quite changed; low and husky. Blanche raised 
 herself and put her arm round his neck and kissed him ; but she 
 could not speak. 
 
 ' My poor child,' he said, ' they told me you were asleep.' 
 Blanche shook her head, and answered faintly, ' that she had 
 been trying to sleep, but it was of no use.' 
 
 ' You must have an opiate,' observed the earl ; ' I shall send 
 for one,' and he touched the bell-rope. 
 
 ' No opiates for me, dear papa,' said Blanche, stopping him; 
 ' they can do nothing — no one — nobody.' She paused, and put 
 her hand to her head, as if to check the swift, torturing current 
 of thought which was about to rush over her. 
 
 ' Blanche, can you forgive me ?' and the proud earl hid his 
 face upon her pillow, and sobbed like a child. 
 
 ' Forgive you, my own papa ; you who have been so kind, so 
 good : what can I have to forgive ? ' And again she kissed him 
 and fondly smoothed his hair, and whispered how dear he was 
 to her ; but the anguish of remorse was too keen for such con- 
 solation. 
 
 ' Stay, Blanche ! stay,' he exclaimed ; putting aside her 
 hand, and rising with a sudden effort at self-control ; 'hear me 
 patiently, calmly, if you can ; let me tell you all.' 
 
 ' Yes, all, if you please, if you will,' said Blanche, with a 
 gentle but sad smile ; ' that is the greatest kindness ; and, papa, 
 1 will try to bear it.' 
 
 ' And if it should be too much ? ' repeated the earl, thought- 
 hilly. ' They wished me not ; your aunt says it is unwise. But, 
 Blanche, neither you nor I can endure suspense.' 
 
 ' No, indeed ; thank you so much for sparing me. Then, 
 papa, it is — hereditary?' Her breath came quick and faint, 
 and her glassy eyes rested upon her father's face with a look 
 of intense eagerness, which made him turn shuddering from her 
 gaze. 
 
 The earl paused for one instant. ' We think not ; we hope 
 
 not ; only ' 
 
 ' Only you fear,' said Blanche, quite calmly. 
 < No, no,' he exclaimed, ' I do not fear; others may, but I do 
 not. Blanche, you shall hear my story and be comforted, even 
 though it be at the sacrifice of your love for me.' He sat down
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 171 
 
 by her, and without daring to look at her, went on : ' Your 
 mother was insane — I would not try to conceal or mitigate the 
 fact — for many months before her death; and I — I am said to 
 have been the cause. Yes, turn from me, and hate me,' he 
 exclaimed, as Blanche involuntarily caught away the hand which 
 he had taken in his ; * it is only what I deserve; but bear with 
 what I have to say in my defence. There is no hereditary in- 
 sanity in her family, but there is a peculiarity, — a tendency to 
 morbid melancholy, on the female side — not on that of your 
 aunt, they were but half sisters. It is this melancholy which I 
 am accused of having aggravated ; it may be, truly. But, 
 Blanche, even for this — a grievous sin in the eye of man — it is 
 possible that some extenuation may be found in the sight of 
 God. Men call me cold and forbidding ; I am so now, but I 
 was not so always. Once, Blanche, I was loving, tender-hearted, 
 enthusiastic, even as yourself. I was young then. I believed 
 the world was made for happiness, and I thought that I had 
 found it. Look ! ' and he drew forth a small locket, from which 
 the hair that had been placed in it was gone. ' This was a gift 
 from one who was to have been my wife. It is the symbol of 
 the heart she offered me — empty, valueless. She deceived me ; 
 and in the madness of my disappointment I married another. 
 There was my first offence— the offence for which I cannot 
 forgive myself, and for which the punishment of years has fallen 
 upon me.' Blanche stretched out her hand, and again he took 
 it and pressed it to his lips, and continued : ' Your mother had 
 been known to me from infancy. We had played, and walked, 
 and sang together, and outwardly shared many joys and 
 sorrows ; but we had never suited each other. So at least I 
 thought till the hour of my great trial; then, for the first time, 
 1 discovered from the extent of her compassion that we had 
 sympathies in common. Yet I did not really love her; I knew 
 that I did not. I felt that our natures and our tastes were in 
 their foundation totally dissimilar. But I was so lonely — so 
 unutterably wretched; it was such a relief to be able to talk of 
 my misery, that forgetting how by the very act of marriage I 
 must shut out all memory of the past, I offered myself, and was 
 accepted. One great mistake ! O Blanche ! how it mars all 
 hope of goodness and greatness in life. From that hour I was 
 an altered man; bound with an irrevocable chain; having lost 
 the prospect of comfort in domestic life, and unable to rouse 
 myself to interest in public matters. For your mother, let me
 
 172 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 speak of her as she was,' he said, gently, as Blanche heaved a 
 sigh; ' if I seem to blame her, remember that I am seeking to 
 excuse myself to her child; your mother was not a person to 
 be blind to the real state of my heart. She had a craving for 
 affection, and a keen insight into the feelings of others. When 
 she found herself disappointed she sank into a torpid, dreary 
 melancholy, the more unendurable for us both, because the 
 occasion of it was never alluded to by either. Whether by a 
 different line of conduct she might at length have won my love, 
 I cannot say, but she seemed to have no hope of it herself; for 
 she shut herself up from me. When I brought friends to the 
 castle, she pleaded illness, and withdrew from them ; and when 
 I took her into society, she gave way to a depression of spirits 
 which awoke constant remark.' He paused, watching the effect 
 of his words, but Blanche averted her face. 
 
 ' That is all my complaint of her,' he continued, hurriedly. 
 ' She was too good, too high, for me. If she had been more 
 earthly we might have been happier. At least, I should not 
 have to reproach myself with having been the murderer of an 
 angel's peace.' 
 
 ' She was very good, then ? ' murmured Blanche. 
 
 ' Good ! ' he replied ; ' I never knew her equal upon earth, 
 until' — and he stooped and imprinted a kiss on Blanche's 
 burning forehead. ' Yes, she was a marvel, a miracle ; but, 
 Blanche, even for that very cause we were unhappy. It was a 
 goodness which I could not comprehend ; for it was exalted 
 above infirmity itself, and yet saw evil in the most natural pur- 
 suits of others. A life of entire seclusion from the world was 
 her ideal of real excellence, and she tried to carry it out, and 
 did so. I do not say she was wrong,' he added, as Blanche 
 looked up with a disappointed expression : ' it may have been, 
 I believe it was, my own doing. This is not a moment for 
 concealment : I drove her to it. My principles grieved her, and 
 1 did not try to soften them ; and then she grew more strict, and 
 the evil increased. We led this life for nearly four years,' con- 
 tinued the earl ; ' and how wretched it was for us both I can 
 never describe. I had friends about me, but they gave me no 
 real comfort ; and your poor mother took such an aversion to 
 them, that she made it, at last, a point of duty to avoid them. 
 Her only companion was Mrs Wentworth. I doubted then 
 whether the intimacy was wise; I am sure now, that it was not. 
 Mrs Wentworth aggravated, instead of soothing, what was
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 173 
 
 amiss. She made your mother think worse of me than I 
 deserved, and fostered her strict notions till they became 
 absurd. But you were born, Blanche ; my own precious child : 
 it seemed a new era in my existence ; a bright hope and 
 interest for the future. People said that I was disappointed 
 because you were not a boy ; but the)' did not know me. It I 
 was grave afterwards, it was not for that reason. Your mother's 
 spirits for a time rallied so much that I began to think she 
 might soon become more to me than I had ever fancied possible. 
 I tried to induce her to join more in society, and proposed that 
 we should travel. I sketched out a plan, and chose a party to 
 accompany us : she took some pleasure, or at least interest, in 
 the idea at first ; but when we came to enter into detail, all our 
 former differences revived. Two persons more diametrically 
 opposite in character and taste could never have been united ; 
 and unfortunately her prejudices were principles, and she would 
 never yield them. Yet she loved me, Blanche ; through all, 
 she loved me. It is the bitterest thought of all, now that the 
 past is irrevocable. Her very wish to travel with me alone, to 
 keep me away from those whom she thought likely to encourage 
 me in error, arose from love ; but it irritated me beyond endur- 
 ance ; and' — the earl paused, and moved from his seat as if 
 thus to escape the pain of further recital. 
 
 Blanche stopped him. She said, in a clear, firm tone, ' Papa, 
 you will tell me all now ; we shall both be happier.' And like 
 1 humble child he sat down again, and went on. 
 
 ' Yes, I will tell all. Blanche, you are right ; if we are ever 
 to know peace on earth, it must be by openness. Yet you will 
 shrink from me, even as I shrink from myself ; for I was cruel 
 to her — your mother ! the mother of my only treasure. It was 
 on a stormy, blustering clay— how well I remember it ! — I had 
 been absent all the morning, riding with a party of friends, — 
 some whom she particularly disliked. Perhaps their influence 
 was not good, at least it did not work for good on that day. I 
 returned home in better spirits than usual, and resolved to show 
 myself independent, and insist upon your mother's giving up her 
 prejudices, and going with us abroad. I found her in her favour- 
 ite room — the same which you were in yesterday. She scarcely 
 ever left it, except to take her meals ; she was sitting as usual, 
 working, with the Bible open before her. I recollect she told 
 me that she was glad I had come, and that the day had seemed 
 long. We entered into conversation, and from her manner, at
 
 174 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 first, I fancied it a favourable moment for again insisting upon 
 
 my wishes. She listened patiently whilst I urged the pleasure 
 
 it would give me, and reminded her of a wife's duty ; but I saw 
 
 by the expression of her face, as soon as the subject was named, 
 
 that her resolution was immoveable. If I would go alone she 
 
 would accompany me ; but on no other condition. The very 
 
 fact of her silence exasperated me ; I could have better borne 
 
 a torrent of words, than that still, fixed look of determination. 
 
 I upbraided her with inconsistency and neglect of the duty 
 
 she owed me ; and then, for the first time, she poured forth 
 
 her long-hidden griefs. They were true and real. I had 
 
 disappointed her affections, and treated her with coldness, and 
 
 forced upon her society which she abhorred ; but I was too 
 
 proud to hear it : and, in my indignation, I told her that it 
 
 was better we should part. The words were no sooner uttered 
 
 than a sudden change passed over her ; she stood before me, 
 
 a silent, colourless statue — her limbs rigid, her eyes fixed on 
 
 vacancy. I spoke to her, but she took no notice ; and even 
 
 reproach — for I ventured upon it to excite her — had no effect. I 
 
 was more frightened than I chose to acknowledge, but I had no 
 
 doubt that quietness would restore her ; and, ringing for Iner 
 
 maid, I left her. Mrs Wentworth met me in the passage. I 
 
 was bewildered and conscience-stricken, but I could not endure 
 
 that she should see any symptoms of humiliation ; and being 
 
 determined to tell my own tale, I stopped her, and related in 
 
 few words what had passed, attributing your poor mother's 
 
 change of manner to obstinate resolution. " My will," I said, 
 
 " was irrevocably fixed ; as I could not make her happy, I was 
 
 certain it was better for both of us to part." Mrs Wentworth 
 
 received the announcement with her usual cold stoicism, and, 
 
 merely asking me where she should find your mother, went to 
 
 her room. I joined my friends, for the thought of solitude was 
 
 dreadful to me. I had such horrible misgivings, which I could 
 
 not subdue. After the lapse of about an hour, I sent to inquire 
 
 for your mother ; they brought me word that Mrs Wentworth 
 
 was with her, and that she wished to remain quiet. Can you 
 
 believe, Blanche, that I was irritated by this ? After all my 
 
 indifference and cruelty, I hated the thought of Mrs Went- 
 
 worth's being her companion. I fancied how they would talk 
 
 of me, and blame me ; and I had pictured to myself despair 
 
 and anger, rather than quietness. Hitherto I had triumphed 
 
 in the knowledge of my power over your poor mother's affec-
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 175 
 
 tion ; perhaps, but for that, I should never have tried her so 
 far : but the seclusion and calmness reduced me to nothing. I 
 was determined, however, not to betray what was going on — our 
 party was as gay as usual, and we dined out ; and in the course 
 of the evening, as the plan for a continental tour was again 
 brought under discussion, I was induced to say that I would 
 not let anything interfere longer with the scheme, but that I 
 would be ready to start in a few days. In my heart, I hoped 
 that this determination of purpose would bring your mother to 
 reason, and that a reconciliation would be the consequence. 
 But it was otherwise ordered, Blanche,' and the earl's voice be- 
 came tremulous and hollow ; ' I never saw her again ; never 
 until, eight months afterwards, she lay dressed for her coffin, 
 apparently the same colourless image from which I had parted. 
 
 ' Yet it was not all my fault,' continued the earl, more calmly ; 
 1 Mrs Wentworth may have acted for the best — I have tried to 
 believe that she did ; but she played a cruel part. She found 
 your poor mother stunned at what had passed, and thought it 
 right not to run the risk of allowing her to see me ; but, in- 
 stead of telling me of her real state, and so awakening my com- 
 passion, she sent me messages which made me think your 
 mother cold and obstinate ; and soon so exasperated me, that 
 the next day I set off for London, and sent her word that I was 
 upon the point of leaving England. I think Mrs Wentworth 
 saw her error at last— at least, she must have been convinced 
 that she had miscalculated the amount of your poor mother's 
 strength of mind, for it was gone then ; the little that had re- 
 mained from the time when I first spoke of separation fled, 
 when she knew that I had actually left her. She became — O 
 Blanche ! you must not ask me to tell you what ; I would not 
 have you know it or think of it.' He rose from his seat and 
 paced the room, and Blanche closed her eyes and prayed. ' It 
 is not hereditary, you see — it cannot be hereditary,' continued 
 the earl, drawing near her again, and speaking rapidly ; ' you 
 were then nearly a year old. Who gave you the notion that 
 it might be ? ' 
 
 ' Only Mrs Wentworth in those few words,' said Blanche, 
 trying to keep under every symptom of agitation. 
 
 1 My evil fate ! ' exclaimed the earl ; ' it is she who has been 
 the destroyer of every hope. It must have been a letter to 
 her that you told me you had read ; yet I thought I had burnt 
 all.'
 
 176 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' The letter did not exactly frighten me,' said Blanche ; ' it 
 only made me unhappy ; for it was very miserable.' 
 
 ' It must have been written towards the last,' said the earl : 
 ' she was better then, but not happier. Would to God that I 
 could think so ! There again I did her grievous wrong ; yet 
 not entirely intentionally. The people about her sent me word 
 at first that she was ill, but they said little of the circumstances. 
 It was Mrs Wentworth's great aim to keep all private ; I do 
 her the justice to believe from good intention — a regard to 
 public opinion, and the feelings of the family, and a dread lest 
 my return might do harm instead of good. She devoted her- 
 self to your mother, and scarcely any one else saw her : when 
 at last the unhappy fact became more certainly irremediable 
 and more generally suspected, Mrs Wentworth wrote, still, how- 
 ever, vaguely, adrising me to return for the sake of my own 
 peace of mind ; but that was all. I did not understand her 
 allusion, and I desired a message from your mother, which she 
 was in no state to give. Yet, I will not excuse myself ; I would 
 not know what I might have known. I did not learn because 
 I would not inquire. But the shock came at last. I was at 
 Venice, just returned from a wandering in the Tyrol, and plan- 
 ning a further tour in the East. Letters were brought me from 
 England, and I opened them carelessly, for I expected nothing 
 more than I had received for many weeks. She was dying ; — 
 her reason had returned, but she was dying. The one longing 
 wish which haunted her was, to see me and forgive me. Blanche, 
 she may have forgiven me in heaven ; but I was never permitted 
 to learn it from her own lips on earth. Two hours before I 
 reached Rutherford she died.' 
 
 There was a silence of many moments. It was broken by 
 Blanche. ' Papa,' she said, ' you have made me happier ; will 
 you not be happier yourself? ' 
 
 Lord Rutherford did not trust himself to look up ; he had 
 leant his head upon her pillow, and she felt the agitated beating 
 of his pulse as his hand rested upon hers. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said again, ' may I tell you what I really feci ? ' 
 
 He did not answer, and she went on. 
 
 ' I was frightened this morning, for I was selfish ; I had 
 horrible thoughts about myself, and I was afraid — it was very 
 wrong, but I thought there was something more dreadful about 
 - — about you. I feel so sorry now, and I am not unhappy ; I 
 can trust, and I will try not to think of what raav be.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 177 
 
 ' May be — may be,' exclaimed the earl, passionately ; ' 1 
 will never have those words repeated again.' 
 
 1 Yes ; may be, dear papa,' said Blanche, firmly ; ' for 
 it may be the will of God, and then we would neither of us 
 murmur.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford rose impatiently ; but Blanche detained him 
 with a look of the most earnest entreaty for his assent, and 
 added, ' We could not think it hard if it was ordered ; could 
 we ? ' 
 
 ' Not hard ! ' and the earl smiled scornfully ; ' not cruel, that 
 my innocent child should suffer ! ' 
 
 Blanche sighed heavily ; yet it was only a momentary feeling 
 of despair, and again gently and seriously she said, ' I can trust, 
 and hope, and tiy to be happy ; and, if I wish it, will not you 
 do so likewise ? You are so very kind always.' 
 
 The earl's eyes glistened ; ' I would do all in my power, my 
 child,' he said, ' for your sake, and for my own. O Blanche, 
 you little know the weary life that has been my punishment 
 since those fearful days. If sackcloth and ashes could atone, 
 as men fondly deem, for their offences, there should have been 
 no greater penitent on earth than him whom men have called 
 the proud Earl of Rutherford. But I have atoned, and I will 
 atone, in the only way left. When kneeling by your mother's 
 coffin, I vowed to redeem the past by the sacrifice of every 
 wish of my heart to the happiness of her child ; and that vow, 
 in the sight of God, I now repeat to you. Ask what you will, 
 Blanche — do what you will — it shall be granted and allowed ; 
 only let me feel that the curse which I have brought upon my- 
 self is revoked — that the visitation which has once been sent 
 upon my house will not return to it in judgment again.' 
 
 Blanche caught her father's hand ; but he turned away, and 
 in a firmer and altered voice entreated her to rest for the present, 
 and, if possible, to exert herself so as to appear at the dinner- 
 table. ' We may understand each other, but there is no need 
 for others to understand us,' he said, as he left the room ; and 
 Blanche, though longing for further conversation, dared not ask 
 hha to remain. 
 
 U
 
 178 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A GAY party was assembled on the lawn at Senilhurst. 
 Lady Charlton, and a few elderly ladies and middle- 
 aged gentlemen, chaperoning an assemblage of younger ones. 
 Luncheon was just ended ; some guests were departing ; some, 
 who were staying in the house, were settling rides and drives for 
 the afternoon. Lady Charlton was making herself agreeable, 
 as she always did in her own house. There could not be a 
 more easy, unaffected, kind-hearted manager for every one, — 
 quite unequalled, apparently ; for she was good-humoured, 
 sympathising and considerate, with just enough strictness and 
 particularity to suit sober-minded people, and just sufficient 
 vivacity to enjoy and keep up the mirth of the more thought- 
 less. And Senilhurst was precisely the place in which Lady 
 Charlton could show herself to advantage. There were no 
 deep windows, suggesting retirement and reflection ; no anti- 
 quated pieces of furniture, with traditional stories attached to 
 them ; no haunted chambers or dark melancholy passages. It 
 was a bright, smiling, sunshiny house, large and handsome, 
 built on the side of a hill facing the south. There was a genial 
 southern aspect over everything about it. Green-house plants 
 flourished in the open air ; vines were trained over trellised 
 work, and formed green arches and shady walks ; the sloping 
 lawn was smooth and soft as velvet ; the clear stream of water 
 reflected every leaf and branch of the large beech and ash trees 
 which grew on its banks. At a season when almost every one 
 else was sighing at the thought that summer was over, Lady 
 Charlton was exhibiting her garden in full beauty. It was a 
 triumph she peculiarly enjoyed, for it involved no offensive 
 vanity, and Lady Charlton shrank from all personal display. 
 It was so pleasant to hear the different remarks made upon the 
 charming situation — the splendid colours — the beautiful out- 
 lines, couched with the suggestion that nature had done much, 
 but art had done still more ; and Lady Charlton felt herself so 
 unpretending and indifferent, in the midst of such delicate 
 homage to her taste, and was so courteous and modest ; in 
 fact, she became quite young in her garden. 
 
 ' You must be entirely spoilt for other places,' suggested 
 Colonel Lorton, a new acquaintance, and a man of large for-
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 179 
 
 tune, who was endeavouring to ingratiate himself with Lady 
 Charlton for the sake of a rather idle and wilful son. 
 
 ' Every spot has its peculiar beauty,' was the careless reply. 
 c Senilhurst is certainly pretty ; but, Colonel Lorton, you are 
 not going to leave us this afternoon. The riding party reckoned 
 upon your assisting them in exploring the Warham Woods.' 
 
 Colonel Lorton bowed, but regretted that he was under a 
 special engagement. If he might be allowed — if it would not be 
 an intrusion to leave his son as his representative — he thought, 
 indeed he was quite sure, that he would be a most safe guide. 
 
 Lady Charlton felt it necessary to be slightly distant and 
 hesitating in her manner of conferring a favour which she had 
 determined upon beforehand. ' Of course,' she said, 'every one 
 would be glad of such an escort. It was just possible that her 
 daughters might be obliged to give up their horses to some 
 friends, but that would make no difference to Mr Lorton — and 
 she would immediately inquire what was settled.' And Lady 
 Charlton glided away to insist upon Adelaide's joining the 
 Warham expedition, at all events. 
 
 The party set off — a pleasant, merry one. Lady Charlton 
 watched them as they rode through the park, and congratulated 
 herself on her good management. Mr Lorton might be a little 
 silly, a little dissipated ; but he had family and fortune in his 
 favour. The intimacy might or might not have results — that 
 was not the question ; but it would amuse for the moment, and 
 drive away all thought of Mr Wentworth ; and though Lady 
 Charlton could not but own to herself that it was a balance of 
 evil, what was to be done ? Adelaide was so giddy and head- 
 strong there was no possibility of keeping her out of mischief, 
 except by skilful management. Principles she did not and 
 could not understand, and if it was not a very high-minded, 
 delicate species of domestic diplomacy, it was only the way of 
 the world ; and people who live in the world must follow the 
 maxims and customs of the world. 
 
 Lady Charlton congratulated herself upon her cleverness, and 
 went, with a lighter heart, to inquire into the movements of the 
 remainder of her visitors. Two riding-horses were still standing 
 at a side-entrance ; and she heard Lord Rutherford ask if any 
 one had seen Lady Blanche. 
 
 Lady Charlton went up to him : ' You are not waiting for 
 Blanche, are you ? She is gone, I believe. I am nearly sure 
 she was one of the Warham party.'
 
 i So THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' She has changed her mind, then, very suddenly,' replied the 
 earl; 'an hour since we settled to ride together.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but, of course, that was all nonsense. When the 
 Warham Woods were talked of, you could not expect her to 
 keep to a first engagement. And it would not be right — you 
 must not really be so exacting.' 
 
 ' I wish her only to do as she likes,' replied the earl, gravely ; 
 ' she told me she preferred riding alone with me.' 
 
 ' But, my dear Rutherford, you don't surely take literally all 
 that the poor child says. She is so devoured by duty, that she 
 has not space left for any thought of pleasure ; and therefore we 
 must think for her. Just fancy what a very agreeable ride she 
 would have missed. Mr Lorton, Sir Charles Trevanion, Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey and her very nice daughters, and that first-rate 
 Lord Erlsmere — it would have been cruel to make her leave 
 them.' 
 
 ' Dear papa, have I kept you waiting ? I am so sorry,' said 
 the gentle voice which was sweeter than the most delicious 
 music to Lord Rutherford's ear. Blanche was standing on the 
 steps, dressed in her riding-habit ; her colour was brighter than 
 usual, her eyes were lighted up with pleasure, or perhaps some- 
 thing better than pleasure^peace — the peace of a mind at rest 
 in itself, and having nothing externally to disturb it. It was a 
 lovely picture which she made, leaning against a column of the 
 portico ; the peculiar and very exquisite beauty so lavishly 
 bestowed upon her by nature, enhanced by the brilliant sunshine 
 and the colouring of the flowers which filled the entrance-hall, 
 and Lady Charlton whispered to the earl that it was a perfect 
 study for an artist. She thought to please him, but he did not 
 answer her ; his eye rested upon Blanche for a moment, and a 
 sigh, audible only to Lady Charlton, followed, and without 
 saying another word he assisted Blanche to mount, and they 
 rode off. 
 
 And Blanche was then happy ! with the certainty of her 
 mother's trials and fatal malady, the want of congeniality in her 
 father, and the disappointment in her aunt, whose character she- 
 was now beginning to understand, and whilst living amongst 
 worldly people and hearing worldly maxims, tempted by all 
 that earth holds most precious, she could still smile with the 
 holy, innocent smile of her happy childhood, and rejoice in 
 ' the peace that passeth understanding.' It may be hard to 
 so few there are who enter upon the scene of life's
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 181 
 
 great delusion, with a sufficient safeguard against its snares. 
 But if Blanche had great temptations to battle with, she had 
 also great support, not only in that inward strength which is 
 never denied to those who seek it, but also in the outward cir- 
 cumstances which were providentially provided for her. Senil- 
 hurst was, indeed, her first experience of the pomps and vanities 
 of the world ; she found there luxury, flattery, refined dissipa- 
 tion, disguised selfishness ; but her mind was pre-occupied, and 
 in consequence much that was evil passed by unnoticed. 
 
 Blanche had grown very old since that one conversation witli 
 her father which had revealed her mother's history. The first 
 knowledge obtained in early youth of the great mistakes by 
 which the happiness of life may be destroyed, makes us strangely 
 thoughtful : it opens a new world, by drawing aside the veil 
 which, in childhood, hides from us the hearts of our fellow- 
 creatures, and induces us to believe all persons happy who have 
 not lessons to learn and teachers to obey. Blanche saw that 
 her mother had erred ; and, painful as the conviction was in 
 some respects, it was not without its accompanying comfort ; 
 for if the countess had been reserved and exclusive, her husband 
 might at least be excused for his want of sympathy. There had 
 been faults on both sides ; yet not such as to destroy a child's 
 respect. Blanche felt that, if her mother had been spared, it 
 might have been possible to bring about not only reconciliation 
 but harmony between her parents. Since that blessing was 
 denied her, it remained only to devote herself to her father, and 
 make it the object of her life to render religion as winning to 
 him now as formerly it had been distasteful. The resolution 
 was made calmly and solemnly, after long thought and earnest 
 prayer ; for Blanche knew that it was not without its dangers. 
 In her desire to make duty agreeable she was likely to be 
 betrayed into a sacrifice of principle. It is the evil which we 
 constantly see in persons who try to gain the favour of the 
 world, and yet to have a conscience clear of offence before God. 
 But Blanche's singleness of purpose saved her ; she did not 
 desire to please her father for the sake of his affection, precious 
 though it was — she had one aim, one motive, infinitely higher, 
 by which to solve every question of casuistry, and it was for- 
 tunate for her object that it was so. 
 
 Inconsistency is never winning. The most inveterate op- 
 ponent of religion has no respect for the halter ' between two 
 opinions.' Talent, grace, beauty, sweetness of temper, unselfish-
 
 I 82 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ness, all are in the end powerless as means of influence, where 
 there is a want of fixedness in principle : for the world is quick 
 and keen in its perceptions, it is particularly gifted with what 
 is called common sense ; and however it may openly flatter and 
 fawn upon its double-minded friends, it most surely visits them 
 with scorn in secret. Yet there was nothing in Blanche's mode 
 of life at Senilhurst likely to attract remark. Lady Charlton 
 saw that she was more cheerful, and attributed the improvement 
 to change of scene, and Adelaide found that her cousin could 
 enjoy many things which at Rutherford she had fancied would 
 have no interest for her. All went on naturally. If Blanche 
 contrived to occupy herself with Lady Charlton's school, it was 
 in such a way that it brought no thought of peculiar goodness or 
 self-denial. She said that she liked it, and made no mysteiy of 
 anything she did there, and her visits were taken as a matter of 
 course ; and when she joined in the afternoon's amusements 
 and made herself often the life of the party, it did not occur to 
 any one to complain because she had absented herself in the 
 early part of the day. So again, when she gave up some scheme 
 of enjoyment to ride or walk with her father, it was impossible 
 to think she had made a sacrifice. There was not a shadow 
 of disappointment upon her bright face ; it was supposed that 
 she followed her own inclinations, and no sympathy was thrown 
 away upon her. 
 
 And yet Blanche was learning to fashion her life, in this new 
 world of temptation, upon a strict and most self-denying rule. 
 Her hours of devotion were fixed ; her duties marked out day 
 by day; and the one motive of her father's happiness influenced 
 her in the most trifling circumstances. 
 
 Lady Charlton was a strict observer of all the customary 
 forms of a religious household, and Blanche was never absent 
 from family prayers. Adelaide laughed, and said, ' She was 
 dreadfully good ; ' but it was not such an extraordinary effort 
 as to create much wonder ; and no one knew or thought of in- 
 quiring how much time Blanche had redeemed from unnecessary 
 sleep to prepare herself, in private, for the day's trials. When 
 so many were going and coming — talking, drawing, singing — • 
 it was not seen that Blanche followed any order in her occupa- 
 tions ; yet the day was carefully divided, and seasons for self- 
 examination and retirement were as watchfully, if not as metho- 
 dically, kept as if she had been a member of an order set apart 
 from the world : whilst, amidst all, as a duty of religion as well
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 183 
 
 as of affection, Blanche was ever striving to make her father 
 read with her, talk to her, and interest himself in her engage- 
 ments. The first hour after breakfast was always spent with 
 him, looking over his letters and trying to gain some insight into 
 the business connected with his property. Blanche had begun 
 the practice playfully, and seemingly only from curiosity ; but, 
 in a very short time, she made herself really useful ; and, even 
 when questions were too complicated for her opinion to be of 
 consequence, Lord Rutherford found a satisfaction in talking 
 them over with her. So, in other ways, whatever engaged his 
 attention occupied hers ; and though at first it was difficult to 
 believe that this interest could ever be reciprocal, Blanche en- 
 deavoured to make it so, and in a great measure succeeded. 
 
 She always took it for granted that her father cared to know 
 what she liked or what she did. She .gave her opinions upon 
 people and things freely to him in private, and brought out, in 
 return, many of the lesser feelings and sympathies which form 
 the cement of family life, but which reserved people are apt to 
 bury in their own bosoms, and scarcely perhaps to remark even 
 in themselves. 
 
 It was scarcely possible for such an intercourse to continue 
 day after day without working some effects, visible even to 
 Blanche, and giving her hope that their principles might even- 
 tually accord. 
 
 Lord Rutherford had begun by thinking her a child to be 
 loved and fondled, and treating her accordingly ; but, as time 
 went on, his sentiments towards her insensibly changed. Re- 
 spect blended with his affection- — respect for her judgment, 
 discrimination of character, and delicacy of feeling ; and some- 
 thing approaching to awe at the high, unworldly views which 
 she did not hesitate to put forth, though so unobtrusively as 
 never to offend his taste, or to jar upon his sense of a parent's 
 position of superiority. And Lord Rutherford was now at ease 
 with Blanche. There was nothing more to reveal. The worst, 
 both for himself and for her, had been told ; yet she could 
 love him still : and, what was equally essential to his happiness, 
 she could still smile without any apparent foreboding of evil to 
 come. 
 
 Lord Rutherford little knew the constant check upon the 
 thoughts by which this calmness was attained. He only saw 
 the result, and was satisfied, and he had reason to be so. 
 
 After the first shock of discovering her mother's insanity was
 
 1 84 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 past, Blanche's fears naturally reverted to herself; not so 
 much with a definable dread, as with a vague horror of the 
 future, which was perhaps worse to bear. She was too young 
 and inexperienced to understand fully the government of her 
 own mind, and fancies and fears oppressed her, which might 
 have brought lasting consequences of evil, but for a warning 
 from the only friend to whom she ventured to reveal the extent 
 of her fears. 
 
 Mrs Howard could feel for Blanche, the more deeply as she 
 had herself, up to that period, been kept in ignorance of the 
 nature of the countess's illness ; but her advice was given with 
 a calm decision, which in itself served to strengthen Blanche's 
 failing spirit. ' It was not,' she said, ' a case for resignation 
 simply ; for that, under such circumstances, would imply sub- 
 mission to a certain evil ; and the first thing for Blanche to do, 
 was to realise to herself, as clearly as possible, that the evil 
 was not certain. And this must be done, not by taking the 
 opinion of others, but by using her own reason.' 
 
 ' Put the question aside as belonging to yourself, if possible, 
 my dear child,' wrote Mrs Howard ; ' and try to look at it as 
 if it concerned another. Our trials are often exaggerated to at 
 least double their real magnitude, because we have not courage 
 to view them in their full extent. Whatever the evil may be 
 which presents itself, face it ; see it as well as may be in its 
 true light, without any distortions of hope or fear ; then deter- 
 mine how it may be avoided or endured. If you do this, you 
 will see that, when the circumstances are fairly considered, 
 there is little to justify uneasiness in those who love you best. 
 If there were, do you think I could write as I am now doing ? 
 But you will say, and very naturally, that the dread still re- 
 mains ! I believe it must. I do not think it is in human 
 nature to escape it ; and it is in this that I feel for you most 
 deeply. Yet it may be converted into a blessing. If, when 
 the idea of a dreadful possibility presents itself, you can turn 
 away from it as a matter of duty, you will acquire a power of 
 self-control, which will be — I cannot say how useful to you in 
 other instances. I do most earnestly trust that you will try 
 and do this. Pray never read books upon the subject ; and 
 when you find yourself fancying what may be, and beginning 
 to torture yourself with picturing scenes of misery, remember 
 that for you that sort of reverie is as mischievous as real evil 
 might be to others. It will be most difficult at first, I know,
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 185 
 
 to keep this constant watch over yourself ; but it is not at all 
 impossible, and your happiness unquestionably depends upon 
 it. I should be much comforted if I thought that you were 
 likely to lead a very active, useful life. Constant employment 
 — devotion, in fact, to any object out of yourself — would be a 
 great help to you. And especially, my dear child, I must warn 
 you not to try and hide from yourself that there is something 
 which you dread. It would be a very vain attempt. Only, 
 when the fear comes, as it must and will no doubt, overwhelm- 
 ingly at times, until you have learnt thoroughly to command 
 yourself, carry it where alone it can be soothed. Do not reason or 
 talk, or even endeavour to distract your thoughts ; — but pray. 
 If you have not words at command, yet the very attitude of 
 kneeling will give you comfort. A child in its grief hides its 
 face in its mother's lap, and so may we hide our faces from the 
 worst of this world's sorrows under the shadow of God's love.' 
 
 The quiet tone of this letter had a great influence upon 
 Blanche. She was a little disappointed in it at first, and 
 thought it cold ; but, on reading it a second and third time, 
 she saw that it only appeared so because Mrs Howard was not 
 really uneasy. Her naturally buoyant spirit revived as the 
 impression deepened, and although miserable thoughts would 
 often rush upon her mind and a continued check was required 
 for her wandering thoughts, yet she did by degrees succeed in 
 keeping down, though not entirely crushing, all sad forebodings. 
 
 If effecting this, her life at Senilhurst was certainly as great 
 an assistance as even Lady Charlton could have desired ; for it 
 was a very new, interesting, amusing life ; with frequent arrivals 
 and departures and never-ending schemes of pleasure, and 
 merry dancing and musical evenings — the pervading gaiety 
 being varied by clever discussions upon books, sparkling wit, 
 and occasional arguments upon grave and important topics. 
 There was nothing in all this openly to shock Blanche's prin- 
 ciples, for Lady Charlton was fastidious in her choice of visitors, 
 and liked to have it considered a privilege to be admitted at 
 Senilhurst. She contrived also very cleverly to mix up her 
 parties, so as to bring together persons who were likely to suit; 
 and with Lord Rutherford and Blanche as the guests, for whom 
 she was most interested, she had taken particular care to ex- 
 clude all persons who had not something of intellect, or refine- 
 ment, or accomplishment, or, what she valued more than all, 
 goodness, to recommend them.
 
 1 86 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Yes, Lady Charlton liked goodness extremely — so only that 
 it had a name. She could bear with a considerable amount of 
 oddity, or shyness, or' even rough sincerity, if it was coupled 
 with a little respectable authorship, or well-known zeal, or. 
 what perhaps was as useful as either, a certain amount of 
 persecution. Blanche met with several very excellent and 
 thoroughly simple-minded, unworldly persons at Senilhurst ; 
 persons whom she could admire heartily, and long to imitate ; 
 and they were a great safeguard to her, though in a way which 
 her aunt never intended when she brought them together. 
 
 Lady Charlton was a managing, scheming person ; really 
 very unconsciously : management with her was an instinct. 
 She had managed her own marriage to escape from an unhappy 
 home, and the marriages of her sisters and of almost all her 
 intimate friends. She intended to manage her daughters' also; 
 and, as a matter of simple duty and kindness, that of her niece. 
 
 True, Blanche was extremely young to think of such a thing ; 
 quite a child in many of her tastes ; very ignorant of the ways 
 of the world, and not yet regularly introduced into society ; but 
 there was no harm in being on the watch. If it would not do 
 as yet to fix upon any person to encourage, it might be well to 
 take care that she should not be put in the way of any whom it 
 might be right to discourage ; and, following out her own 
 notions of what might not be wholly undesirable, Lady Charlton 
 collected at Senilhurst as many persons as she could, of suffi- 
 cient rank and fortune and respectability of character, to make 
 the society pleasant without being dangerous. 
 
 Of one danger, indeed, she never thought — the danger of the 
 flattering homage which grace and beauty, when joined to high 
 birth and great wealth, can scarcely fail to receive. 
 
 That was no danger in Lady Charlton's eyes ; rather it was 
 the tempting prize, for which every effort must be risked. 
 Blanche was exposed to it without a thought of caution ; with 
 no shield except the simplicity of her own heart and the de- 
 votion of her time and thoughts to other objects. 
 
 But with these she was safe. The pursuits which chiefly in- 
 terested her were such as brought her in contact with persons 
 whose superior intellect and high tone of mind raised her stan- 
 dard of what men might be ; whilst their age and position in 
 life prevented all idea of romance or admiration. Blanche felt 
 keenly the difference between such men and the ordinary worldly, 
 though refined and accomplished, persons who visited' at Seni'l-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 187 
 
 hurst. She saw they could understand and sympathise with 
 her, although, as she deemed, far above her in mind and excel- 
 lence. And such intercourse saved her from the delusion, which 
 sometimes fatally misleads young persons, of believing, that be- 
 cause the generality of persons are careless in their conduct and 
 lax in their principles, therefore no real purity and goodness 
 exist except in cases c: special retirement and abstraction from 
 ordinary pursuits. 
 
 Blanche was beginning to learn, from her own experience, 
 that men can mingle in the common intercourse of society and 
 retain their simplicity and devotedness. She saw before her 
 true, single-minded, earnest goodness, and no discovery of its 
 counterfeit could henceforth shake her faith in it. 
 
 It might be that such a conviction rendered her fastidious 
 and indifferent. Some persons said she was so, and blamed 
 her. They could not comprehend the quiet, unexcited way in 
 which she received the attentions paid her by men whose admir- 
 ation was generally considered of great value. One or two 
 ladies, more harsh judging than the rest, declared that she was 
 proud; others, suspicious of evil, became conscious of it, and 
 yielding to it, stated their conviction that Blanche was in her 
 heart as vain and ' flirty' as any other young lady of her age ; 
 but the greater number — men as well as women — yielded to the 
 spell of her pure and gentle dignity, and treated her with the 
 cautious respect shown to the innocence of a child, which we 
 shrink from sullying even by a thoughtless word. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ' T) LAN CHE,' said the earl, as they passed through the park 
 J3 gates, and caught sight of the riding-party ascending a 
 hill at some little distance, ' I am afraid you have disappointed 
 yourself to keep your promise with me. You wanted to go to 
 Warham, I know : I wish you would have told me.' 
 
 Blanche laughed. ' And made you uncomfortable and my- 
 self too, dear papa. I did want to go to Warham, certainly ; 
 but one day is as good as another, as far as seeing the country 
 is concerned ; and I had two reasons for not desiring to be
 
 1 88 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 with them to-day. One, that I liked the thought of a ride with 
 you ; and the other, that I did not much fancy the party.' 
 
 I What, not Mrs Cuthbert Grey ! and, as your aunt calls him, 
 that first-rate Lord Erlsmere ? ' 
 
 I I like Mrs Cuthbert Grey very well ; not very much ; ' said 
 Blanche, hesitating. ' I wish one could go through the world 
 without judging people ; but I have never liked her very much 
 since — such a very little thing, I really am ashamed to men- 
 tion it.' 
 
 ' Well ! since what ? I can keep a secret,' replied the earl, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' Since I heard her talk so strictly against operas to Arch- 
 deacon Fanshawe, and found out afterwards that she always 
 engages a box for the winter. It gave me a notion of her not 
 being true. I don't think I could ever like a person very much 
 who was not true. But I was not thinking of Mrs Cuthbert 
 Grey when I said I did not fancy the party.' 
 
 ' Of Lord Erlsmere, then, perhaps ? ' said the earl. 
 
 * No, nor of Lord Erlsmere. I don't care about him, except 
 that he is rather tiresome to talk to, and always asks me if I 
 don't look forward to my first London season. But, papa, I do 
 very much — I hope it is not wrong — I really dislike very much, 
 indeed, to go without you or my aunt, when Adelaide and such 
 a person as that Mr Lorton are together. I cannot tell why it is, 
 but they make me feel so stiff and so cold ; I am quite worried 
 with myself. And it vexes me the more, because Adelaide is 
 particularly kind to me, and makes a point of arranging that 
 I shall be with her when she is going anywhere. Can you 
 understand ? ' 
 
 ' Your taste is offended,' replied the earl ; < that flirting 
 manner of Adelaide's is un-ladylike. I cannot imagine how 
 your aunt can endure it. I should lock her up if she was my 
 child.' 
 
 ' I wish she would,' exclaimed Blanche, and then, laughing 
 at her own eagerness, she added, ' I wish she would do any- 
 thing, I mean, to keep Adelaide quiet. And I wish,' she con- 
 tinued more gravely, ' that my aunt could win Adelaide's confi- 
 dence, and persuade her to talk to her as she does to me.' 
 
 ' Is there confidence between you, then ? ' exclaimed the earl, 
 in a tone of surprise, and slight displeasure. ' I never supposed 
 your cousinly intimacy could go quite so far as that.' 
 
 i I don't know whether you would call it confidence,' replied
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 189 
 
 Blanche ; ' I suppose not, for it is not at all reciprocal ; but 
 Adelaide seems to like to say odd things to me, and now and 
 then she does say very odd ones ; startling, quite, if I could 
 believe them. But she rattles on so fast, one never knows 
 whether she is in earnest.' 
 
 ' She is a silly, vain girl, who never says a word worth listen- 
 ing to/ exclaimed the earl, impatiently. ' I hope, Blanche, you 
 don't trouble yourself about her.' 
 
 ' I cannot help myself,' replied Blanche. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, my love, indeed you can. If you were not so 
 unnecessarily good-natured, you would by this time have found 
 out how to rid yourself of silly people.' 
 
 Blanche put her horse into a canter, and they rode on. The 
 thread of the conversation was for the moment broken, but the 
 earl resumed it. ' I hope you will remember that, my dear 
 child, when you go more into the world ; remember, I mean, 
 to keep clear of boring, absurd people. It is the only thing 1 
 am really afraid of for you. Such a person as Adelaide may 
 hang about you like a dead weight, if you don't make an effort 
 to shake her off.' 
 
 ' Poor Adelaide ! ' exclaimed Blanche, ' there are very few 
 persons to care for her ; I wish there were more, heartily. But, 
 papa, do you know there does not seem such a great difference 
 to me between her and a good many other persons I have seen 
 here, and whom my aunt calls superior. She only does openly 
 what they do quietly.' 
 
 ' So you have discovered that, my love, have you ? ' said the 
 earl, smiling ; ' but you will learn by and by, that it is a great 
 virtue in the world to conceal one's object dexterously.' 
 
 ' I should be sorry to have any object to conceal,' said 
 Blanche. 
 
 ' Heaven forbid you ever should have, my darling ; but it 
 would be impossible : for you could never be on a par with the 
 managing, manoeuvring people one meets with everywhere — it 
 is not in your nature. You will go on dreaming, Blanche, 1 
 suspect, and leave it to your aunt and me to fall in love for you.' 
 
 Blanche laughed. ' I suppose it is a sort of thing one might 
 be very glad to do by proxy,' she said, ' as most people say 
 they are so wretched all the time. But, papa,' she added, 
 slightly blushing, ' I don't see that it is quite necessary to fall 
 in love, as a great many of the young ladies I meet here seem 
 to fancy.'
 
 190 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Not necessary,' said the earl, unable to repress a smile ; 
 ' only most natural and probable, as you will understand in due 
 time.' 
 
 ' Then I would rather leave it to due time before I think about 
 it,' said Blanche. ' I should not like to believe that I could 
 not be quite happy without it ; without being married, I mean,' 
 she added, quickly, for the recollection of the one fatal instance of 
 a marriage without affection rose as a phantom of evil before her. 
 
 ' Yes, leave it, leave it ! ' exclaimed Lord Rutherford, quickly. 
 ' It will come too soon for my happiness, whenever it does come ; 
 but I would not be selfish.' 
 
 ' It will be sent,' said Blanche, gravely ; ' I like to think that, 
 because then one feels so satisfied either way.' 
 
 ' What do you mean by sent ? ' asked the earl, shortly. 
 
 ' Ordered, arranged for one by Providence,' answered Blanche. 
 ' I remember, when I was quite a child, asking Mrs Howard 
 why every one was not married, and whether she thought that 
 I should ever be ; and she said to me, " God knows, and He 
 will tell us by and by ; " and so I thought it a duty to wait till 
 I was told, and I think so now ; and, besides,' she added, her 
 voice sinking into an under-tone, ' so many other things may 
 happen — one may die.' 
 
 They had just then reached an open common, upon which 
 stood a few scattered cottages and a school built by Sir Hugh. 
 It was a very inviting place for a quick canter over the soft turf, 
 and Blanche was gathering up the reins as a preparation, when 
 two women came slowly out of the school-house, carrying be- 
 tween them a little boy, about five or six years of age. He was 
 lying apparently senseless in their arms, his head drooping, and 
 his face deadly pale. Blanche thought she recognised him as 
 the son of the lodgekeeper at Senilhurst, a sickly child who had 
 often attracted her notice and pity for his ill-health, and in 
 whom she was particularly interested as being the nephew of 
 the blind girl at Rutherford. The women stopped to rest, lean- 
 ing against the gate of the school-ground, and water was brought 
 to recover the child ; and as Blanche and her father rode close 
 up to them, he revived a little. Lord Rutherford asked a few 
 questions, and heard that ' he was faint — that it was a common 
 thing with him, for he was very weakly — he would be better 
 soon, no doubt, and then he would go home, they did not know 
 how, it was some distance, but he would manage it, of course, 
 for he always did.'
 
 THE SAUL'S DAUGHTER. 191 
 
 The earl looked at the boy, and said ' Poor little fellow ! ' 
 and would have gone on, but Blanche begged that they might 
 delay, just for a few minutes, till the boy was really better. 
 
 She should like to dismount, she said, if she might ; and as 
 the school could not well be left, she would stay and watch him 
 herself, and then they might arrange to have him taken home, 
 for it must be bad for him to walk. 
 
 Almost as soon as the words were spoken, and before her 
 father could assist her, she had alighted. Lord Rutherford 
 acquiesced in the idea ; though, if the suggestion had been 
 made by any one but Blanche, he might have laughed at it as 
 ultra-benevolence — perhaps he thought it so then in his heart — 
 yet there was something that touched his better feelings in this 
 ready sympathy with suffering ; this weakness, it might be, 
 which could not ' pass on the other side,' and leave a sick child 
 to the chance of ordinary care. And it was like Blanche — it 
 was consistent ; and however far removed he might be from 
 sharing his daughter's principles, Lord Rutherford could still 
 value them for this one reason. That which never failed as a 
 guide, which directed the least as well as the most important 
 actions of life, and gave stability to a disposition so gentle and 
 otherwise yielding, was becoming, even in the eye of the man 
 of the world, an ingredient of value in the formation of character. 
 
 The schoolmistress and her companion went away, and soon 
 afterwards the boy was able to answer Blanche's questions him- 
 self ; but his countenance belied his words, when he said that 
 he was really well ; and as he tried to move he staggered, and 
 put his hand to his head and complained of pain. It was 
 evident that the attack was not a common one. 
 
 ' They ought to send him home at once,' said the earl, with 
 some impatience of manner ; ' it is folly to talk of his being able 
 to walk. There must be a cart, or something, which will take 
 him ; but these people are wonderfully indifferent about such 
 matters. I shall tell them they must do something with him 
 directly.' 
 
 He went into the school-house, and returned almost imme- 
 diately, followed by the mistress, who was speaking eagerly. 
 ' Yes, certainly, his lordship might depend upon her doing her 
 best. Carts were not so easy to be had ; but she would try. 
 No doubt something would be managed. It was a great pity 
 his lordship and Lady Blanche should have been delayed ; but 
 Lady Blanche was so very kind always. Johnnie Foster would
 
 1 92 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 be quite sorry, when he came to himself, to think of how much 
 trouble he had been giving.' 
 
 Johnnie Foster seemed perfectly conscious of this fact already, 
 for he tried to raise his head, which was laid against Blanche's 
 shoulder, and a smile came over his little pale face, as he 
 thanked her for being kind. 
 
 The earl regarded him with more interest than before. The 
 expression of the countenance was singularly sweet and intelli- 
 gent, as he fixed his blue eyes upon Blanche, with a mixture of 
 shyness, wonder, and pleasure, at the notice she was bestowing 
 upon him. ' We will look after him at Senilhurst,' he said, 
 addressing Blanche ; l but we must not wait now, or you will 
 lose your ride completely.' 
 
 Blanche had a request upon her lips ; for she thought the 
 ride a very secondary object to the child's comfort. Yet she 
 hesitated in making it, since it was against her desire of con- 
 sulting her father's wishes. 
 
 ' You would rather stay,' he said, reading her inclinations 
 quickly. 
 
 ' No, not stay ; for I do not think I can be of much use, as 
 lie is better ; but if there is any difficulty about sending him 
 home, I should like to let his mother know, and she might come, 
 perhaps, in Sir Hugh's spring-cart to fetch him. And then we 
 might, if you did not care, go on the other way to Cobham, and 
 let the doctor know he is to come and see him. I should like 
 to be sure that he was taken care of,' she added, ' and to feel 
 one had done all one could.' 
 
 The schoolmistress began to remonstrate against this very 
 unnecessary trouble as she called it, repeating again and again 
 that Johnnie would do very well, and they should ' manage 
 somehow ; ' but Blanche was urgent, when she saw that her 
 father did not object to the idea, and, after seeing the child 
 carried into the house again and laid upon a little sofa in the 
 mistress's parlour, she again mounted her horse to return. 
 
 Cobham was the post-town of Senilhurst, a small place, a few 
 miles from the railway station. The road was dull, and the 
 town dirty and uninteresting ; in general, Lord Rutherford 
 made it a point of duty to avoid it; but this afternoon, although 
 it was growing late and chilly before he and Blanche reached 
 it, his usual complaints were silenced. Yet he was not amused 
 by conversation ; little had been said, by either, for nearly half 
 an hour, the time which had elapsed from their leaving the
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 193 
 
 lodge-gate at Senilhurst. Blanche had seen the mother of the 
 
 sick child there, and advised that he should be sent for imme- 
 diately, and had undertaken to give notice to the doctor at 
 Cobham ; and then she seemed satisfied, and would have 
 talked as usual to her father upon other topics, but she found a 
 difficulty in fixing his attention, and presently give up the 
 endeavour. The medical man was not at home. Lord Ruth- 
 erford wished to give a verbal message, but Blanche asked to 
 write it. 
 
 ' It was more certain,' she said, ' and she was afraid the child 
 was worse than his mother fancied.' So a card was left, with 
 ' Lady Blanche Evelyn's compliments;' and once more Blanche 
 turned her horse's head towards Senilhurst. 
 
 'And your mind is at rest now, Blanche, is it?' said her 
 father, as they rode off. ' Do you mean to go through the 
 world taking as much pains about everything ? You will have 
 hard work if you do.' 
 
 ' I should not care for that,' replied Blanche, ' if I could do 
 it as it ought to be done. I should like to think that this sort 
 of thing was work.' 
 
 ' It is troublesome and disagreeable enough, at all events,' 
 replied the earl. ' Not that it has been disagreeable to me, my 
 child ; don't think that ; but I see in you so often, Blanche, an 
 overtasking of your mind, an exhausting energy, which will 
 wear you out if you don't take care, and it makes me anxious 
 about you.' 
 
 Blanche checked her horse, in her surprise, as she exclaimed : 
 ' Anxious lest I should overwork myself ! my dear papa ! why I 
 have nothing to do all day but to consider my own pleasure.'* 
 
 ' And your pleasure is to labour for others. I see it, my love, 
 when you don't imagine it. From morning till night you give 
 yourself no rest. There is always a thought of duty before 
 you.' 
 
 Blanche waited for a few seconds, and then said : ' I wish ! 
 ,could believe it was so ; but even supposing it, one must live 
 for some purpose, with some aim, to be happy ; and I should 
 ^certainly like to know that I was doing my utmost, if that were 
 ever so little. I can't imagine resting in anything short of the 
 utmost.' 
 
 'It is a strange notion for such a child,' said the earl, re- 
 garding her with a look in which an intense affection was 
 '.mingled with wonder and respect ; ' but it will scarcely make 
 
 N
 
 i 9 4 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 you happy, Blanche, as you suppose ; because your notions of 
 the utmost are unattainable.' 
 
 ' But I would try ; I would strive,' exclaimed Blanche, her 
 face flushing with eagerness ; ' and my rest would be in striving. 
 There is so much to be done and to be accountable for ; and 
 life may be short,' she added, quietly. 
 
 ' Yes, it may be,' replied the earl, ' but it may also be long ; 
 and there can be no reason to shorten it by over-exertion.' 
 
 ' I would not do that,' said Blanche ; ' and if I could see 
 any danger of over-exertion, I would check myself as a matter 
 of duty. But when I look at other people and see how they 
 are circumstanced, how they are obliged to work, I feel 
 that it would be absurd in me to think over-exertion possible. 
 I am forced to live such a comfortable life, that the only 
 satisfaction I can find in it is, when anything in the shape of a 
 duty comes in my way, doing it thoroughly.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford repeated the word ' thoroughly,' in a tone of 
 much thoughtfulness ; it seemed to have aroused a new train of 
 ideas. 
 
 ' I think sometimes,' continued Blanche, ' that people must 
 be better and happier who are born to work, or at least to be 
 useful in some definite way. It seems as if a great responsi- 
 bility, and a great difficulty, must be taken from them.' 
 
 * But why work, my dear child ? — why fret yourself about 
 such subjects ? — why not take the world as it is given you, 
 and amuse yourself as your age points out ? ' 
 
 ' Because '—Blanche began her sentence twice, and paused 
 with the effort to repress some rising feeling — ' because one 
 should be so sorry if the time came that one were not able ; 
 that is, one might die, or — or — it might not — the power might 
 not be allowed one ; and if it were so, and then at the last, 
 perhaps just before one's death, one had to look back upon this 
 time wasted, it would be so dreadful.' Her voice grew quite 
 composed as the sentence concluded ; but the earl read the 
 secret dread which prompted the thought, and his face was in 
 an instant convulsed with an expression almost of agony. 
 Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped on, without venturing 
 upon another word till they reached Senilhurst.
 
 & 
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 195 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 'T) LAN CHE, where are you going? here are letters for you,'" 
 -L) said Lady Charlton, the following morning, as Blanche 
 came into the library, dressed for walking. 
 
 Blanche received her letters, and was going to take them 
 away, when her aunt again made the inquiry as to where she 
 was going. ' It is too damp, my love, for you to be out. The 
 weather is quite changed — really wintry. I must have you 
 careful of yourself.' 
 
 Blanche was only going to the lodge to inquire for the little 
 boy, and had no intention, she said, of remaining out long. 
 
 ' Oh ! but, my dear, we can send quite easily. Pray don't 
 give yourself the trouble of inquiring, and don't tire yourself, 
 especially to-day. We shall have such a charming importation 
 of visitors at dinner — people you will be sure to like ; so don't 
 wear yourself out beforehand.' 
 
 ' Any one I know ? ' asked Blanche. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes ; — know by name quite well ; ' and Lady Charlton 
 ran over a short list, consisting of a poet and a poet's wife ; a 
 historian, his sister, and a brother-in-law, all delightful people ; 
 and, to crown the whole, Mr Johnstone, of Oakfield ; ' it is the 
 greatest favour in the world for him to come,' she said, her eyes 
 lighted up with excitement. ' He is so immensely busy, and so 
 entirely devoted to his parish, and the bishop makes so much 
 of him, and gives him such a quantity of work to do, I quite 
 despaired of him, though I longed for you to see him, Blanche. 
 But I tempted him with the petition that he would give an 
 opinion about the restoration of the chancel which you heard 
 Sir Hugh talk of. Those good men are so very hard to get at, 
 it is quite a triumph when one can seize upon them for a day.' 
 
 i And will Mrs Johnstone come too ? ' inquired Blanche. 
 ' Eleanor Wentworth knows her, I think ; I remember hearing 
 her say one day that she was a particularly nice person.' 
 
 ' I believe she is very nice, — extremely quiet and domestic ; 
 good she must be to be his wife ; but I don't know much of 
 her ; she seldom leaves home.' 
 
 ' Then Mr Johnstone will come alone,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' Mrs Johnstone is to come, if it is not too wet, and to bring 
 a friend ; but I must confess she is a very secondary considera- 
 tion. He is charming, however. I shall persuade him to stay
 
 196 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 to-morrow, if I possibly can ; but I am afraid he will be ob- 
 stinate. But that must be left ; all I wanted to say to you, my 
 love, was to give you a warning not to over-fatigue yourself, as 
 I should give Ady warning before a ball. So much for differ- 
 ence of taste ! By the by, have you seen Ady this morning?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Blanche; ' she was not down-stairs when I left 
 the breakfast-room.' 
 
 ' Shockingly bad habits !' exclaimed Lady Charlton, shaking 
 her head. ' I wish you could give her a little of your energy 
 and steadiness, Blanche ; or, more properly, a great deal.' 
 Then assuming an air of confidence, she added, — ' I need not 
 say to you that Ady gives me a great deal of anxiety.' 
 
 Blanche assented by a look of sympathy, for she did not know 
 what to answer. 
 
 ' She is very giddy,' continued Lady Charlton, ' and wilful 
 too. I was in hopes that taking her from Rutherford might 
 have done some good, but I am half afraid. Pray, have you 
 heard from Miss Wentworth lately ? ' 
 
 Blanche held a letter from Eleanor in her hand, and Lady 
 Charlton began to excuse herself for having kept her so long 
 from reading it ; looking at the same time, as if she very much 
 wished that it should be opened in her presence. 
 
 ' London !' exclaimed Blanche, in surprise, as she broke the 
 seal, and examined the date ; ' that must be quite a sudden 
 plan.' 
 
 Lady Charlton's countenance showed some uneasiness. 
 Blanche was too much occupied with her letter to notice it ; 
 yet she read out passages occasionally, from the consciousness 
 that Lady Charlton was standing by, listening and expecting. 
 Eleanor, it seemed, was in London, staying with a cousin who 
 was about to sail for India, and had insisted upon her paying a 
 short farewell visit. 
 
 ' She does not write in good spirits,' said Blanche, comment- 
 ing upon the letter as she went on ; ' Rutherford is so dull, she 
 says, without me. I was afraid she would miss me ; she wants 
 so much to know what I am doing.' Here followed an extract 
 from the letter, and rather an unfortunate one, for it brought 
 Blanche into the middle of a confidential sentence, before she 
 exactly knew where she was, and when it was equally impossible 
 either to go forwards or backwards, without explanation, she 
 stopped and coloured, and then, laughing at her own awk- 
 wardness, exclaimed, ' I don't know why I should be so shy
 
 THE KARL'S DAUGHTER. 197 
 
 with you, Aunt Charlton ? I am sure you will understand 
 Eleanor and 1 were talking one day at Rutherford, about being 
 separated all the winter ; and we said it would be so nice if she 
 could come here for a little time ; but we both agreed it could 
 not be, because we knew you were uncomfortable about Mr 
 Wcntworth and Adelaide. Now, Eleanor says she cannot 
 help thinking about it, and longing for it, because London is so 
 near, and the Johnstones have asked her to go to them, which 
 would bring her into the neighbourhood. Her brother is not 
 with her ; so that there would be no real objection, if I could 
 manage it. But you must not think about it, please/ continued 
 Blanche, affectionately. ' I would not worry you on any 
 account, and I know the house is full, and it may be very in- 
 convenient; and as to her visit to Mrs Johnstone, she does not 
 say she is going, only that she has been asked. I merely 
 mentioned it that you might sec there was no mystery. I 
 need not let Eleanor know that the idea was ever suggested to 
 you.' 
 
 It was a great effort to Lady Charlton to conceal that the 
 visit of any person of the name of Wentworth would be dis- 
 agreeable to her; but she was really extremely fond of Blanche, 
 and anxious to make her happy, and if Mr Wentworth was out 
 of the way, there could be no actual objection to Eleanor her- 
 self. Still she hesitated ; it was opening the door, and no one 
 could foresee the consequences. 
 
 ' If I were quite sure about Mr Wentworth,' she began. 
 
 Blanche interposed with an urgent entreaty that she would 
 not allow the subject to trouble her for an instant. She could 
 quite understand ; so would Eleanor. And, after all, even if 
 the invitation was given, Mrs Wentworth might not like Eleanor 
 to accept it ; and Lady Charlton acquiesced, but not as if she 
 was satisfied with the decision — it seemed unkind, and all 
 Blanche's assurances to the contrary failed to restore her to 
 equanimity. 
 
 Poor Blanche heartily repented her imprudence in reading 
 the letter aloud too hastily. It was a lesson for the future; but 
 the experience was bought dearly. Lady Charlton was, to use 
 the common expression, 'put out;' and there is nothing which 
 effects this more surely, with people who seek popularity, and 
 pique themselves upon good-nature, than being obliged to 
 appear ill-natured. She endeavoured to change the subject, 
 and spoke a^ain of the guests who were expected in the even-
 
 198 THE EAR US DAUGHTER. 
 
 ing ; but she showed plainly what was burdening her mind, by 
 saying, as she left the room, ' You know, my dear, I could not 
 bear to be ungracious ; but it would be a mere compliment to 
 ask Miss Wentworth here merely for two or three days, and 
 next week we shall really not have a bed to spare.' 
 
 Blanche had nothing more to say, and nothing to do, but to 
 try and forget her disappointment as best she might. She left 
 the house, intending to go to the lodge ; but the sky was 
 clouding over, and before she had gone any distance, large 
 drops of rain fell and she was obliged to return. 
 
 Misfortunes, every one agrees, never come alone, and this 
 disturbance of her plans was a great increase to Blanche's 
 annoyance. She was lingering under the portico, trying to 
 persuade herself that black clouds and faint glimmerings of 
 light swiftly appearing and vanishing, meant fine weather, when 
 Adelaide Charlton came to the hall-door, and seeing that 
 Blanche had been walking, asked what the weather was likely 
 to be. Blanche was a little startled by the question ; for she 
 had not thought that any one was near, and turned rather 
 quickly to answer it. At the same moment Adelaide dropped 
 a letter, which she was reading. Blanche stooped to pick it 
 up, but Adelaide stepped forward in a great hurry to prevent 
 her. 
 
 ' Thank you ; don't trouble yourself,' she said, hurriedly, 
 crumpling the letter in her hand, and evidently much discom- 
 posed ; ' have you had letters this morning ? — any from Mrs 
 Howard — from Rutherford ? — but I forgot, there is no one to 
 write to you there ; that is, I suppose — I imagine : is Miss 
 Wentworth at home?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Blanche, a little surprised at Adelaide's con- 
 fused manner; ' she has been on a visit to a cousin, in' 
 
 Blanche did not say where, for a little dog, a pet of Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey's, just then came running up to her, and jumping 
 upon her dress, diverted for the moment the current of her ideas. 
 
 ' And Miss Wentworth is going to remain — how long did 
 you say, in London?' inquired Adelaide, still lingering, with 
 the pretence of watching the weather. 
 
 ' I don't know, exactly,' replied Blanche, not observing in 
 her simplicity the knowledge which Adelaide showed of 
 Eleanor's movements. 
 
 ' She will not have time to come here, I suppose,' said 
 Adelaide, carelessly.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 199 
 
 Blanche did perceive something unusual in this remark — in 
 the tone rather than the words. She looked at Adelaide more 
 attentively. There was anxiety in her face ; an anxiety which 
 she was trying to hide by a forced coolness. She bent down 
 to caress the dog, and again the letter fell from her hand. 
 Blanche did not offer a second time to pick it up; but, as it lay 
 for an instant on the ground, she thought the handwriting was 
 Eleanor's. 
 
 ' It won't do for excursions to-day,' said Adelaide, advancing 
 to the top of the steps; 'we must make up our minds to 
 amuse ourselves as well as we can within doors. It is a happy 
 thing we have not very stupid people to entertain ; the Cuthbert 
 Greys are invaluable on a wet day.' 
 
 ' And there are so many coming to dine and sleep,' observed 
 Blanche ; ' with such a set of geniuses, we ought to be very 
 agreeable.' 
 
 ' Geniuses !' exclaimed Adelaide ; ' of all things in a country 
 party I hate geniuses ; people who force one to count the 
 letters in every word one utters, lest one should shock them by 
 one's ignorance, and who, after all, are generally the dullest 
 persons one ever meets.' 
 
 ' Then you must have goodness instead,' said Blanche, 
 laughing. ' Mr Johnstone is more famous, I believe, for his 
 goodness even than for his talents.' 
 
 Adelaide made no reply, but ran down the steps, regardless 
 of the rain, and declared that it was certainly going to be fine. 
 
 ' You will be very wet ; do come in ; pray, Adelaide, do,' 
 remonstrated Blanche. But Adelaide's fancy, at that time, was 
 to be considered strong. On other occasions, she sometimes 
 chose to be thought delicate. She stayed just long enough to 
 prove that she would have her own way, and then ran back 
 into the house, leaving Blanche provoked by her absurdity and 
 rather mystified by her manner. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A WET day in a country house is undoubtedly a trial ; often 
 of the spirits, and always of the mental resources of the 
 party assembled. Senilhurst was as pleasant a house, under
 
 2 0o THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 such circumstances, as could well be imagined ; for there were 
 Dooks for those who chose to employ their minds ; music and 
 drawings for any who enjoyed and appreciated them, and bil- 
 liards for idle gentlemen who had no other way of killing time. 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey sat near a window, ostensibly for the bene- 
 fit of the light upon her embroidery frame, — really, that she 
 might be able to see all that was going on. The Miss Greys 
 wrote letters and worked, and tried to make Lord Erlsmere 
 talk, and to persuade Maude to sing. Adelaide was unusually 
 quiet ; it was supposed because she was interested in a new 
 novel ; and not even the entrance of an occasional refugee from 
 the library — tired of prosing with Sir Hugh, and hoping to find 
 relief in the society of ladies — induced her to exert herself to 
 be entertaining. Lady Charlton came into the room frequently, 
 gossiped a little with Mrs Cuthbert Grey, and admired the Miss 
 Greys' work, and wished earnestly that she could find time to 
 be as industrious ; and then turned to Lord Erlsmere with some 
 question about the post-office or the railroads, which brought 
 out his accurate information upon all matters of public interest. 
 ' But there was no resting-place for her there,' as she said her- 
 self, with a tragi-comic shake of the head, which implied that 
 she was overpowered with business. ' The poor little new 
 schoolmistress had come to make a complaint to Sir Hugh 
 about her chimney; and Mrs Foster, at the lodge, wanted 
 advice about her boy; and many other little matters, too 
 numerous to be mentioned, were all requiring her presence 
 elsewhere. She wished earnestly that she could have a day's 
 quiet ; but home and quietness were not synonymous terms ;' 
 and, with a resigned sigh, Lady Chariton flitted from the room, 
 leaving her guests in a very agreeable state of feeling — com- 
 pounded of pleasure at the delicate flattery administered to 
 themselves — -and admiration of the energetic, self-denying, and 
 useful life of their hostess. 
 
 ' Lady Blanche does not give us much of her society in the 
 morning,' said Miss Caroline Grey to Maude, after they had been 
 silent for some minutes, and were, as she thought, in danger of 
 becoming victims to dulness in consequence. 
 
 ' She spends a great deal of her time with her father, I ima- 
 gine,' observed Mrs Cuthbert Grey, in a soft voice. • ' One can- 
 not be surprised at it. Such a sweet young creature as she is J 
 — he must take great delight in forming her character.' 
 
 ' Her character is formed, I should think,' said Lord Erls-
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 201 
 
 mere, who, if not a first-rate person in point of interest, was 
 certainly so in his love of truth and simplicity. 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey sank from rapture into pity. 
 ' Yes, Lady Blanche's character, she supposed, might be said 
 to be formed ; formed in a peculiar way for so young — so very 
 young a person ; but that would scarcely prevent Lord Ruther- 
 ford from being anxious about her. Poor man ! he had great 
 cause for anxiety; ' and Mrs Cuthbert Grey sighed, and again 
 repeated, ' Poor man ; ' and concluded with observing, ' that it 
 must be a comfort to him, under the circumstances, to see his 
 daughter so cheerful, and with such even spirits.' An observa- 
 tion which made Lord Erlsmere look up with a perception of 
 some secret meaning. 
 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey worked very diligently after this, only 
 pausing every now and then to inquire how her eldest daughter 
 was progressing in her studies ; for Miss Grey had, within the 
 last few minutes, laid down her pen, and commenced the perusal 
 of a political pamphlet which Lord Erlsmere had been heard to 
 recommend strongly. This brought on a discussion, deferential 
 on the part of Miss Grey, and animated on that of Lord Erls- 
 mere, in the midst of which something very like a groan was 
 heard to escape from Maude — and throwing down her book, with 
 an ejaculation at its stupidity, she left the room apparently in a 
 tit of impatience. 
 
 There was a gleam of hope in the prospect of the weather — a 
 little blue sky in the west, and symptoms of dispersion amongst 
 the clouds overhead. Maude stood in the portico, as Adelaide 
 had done before — her own countenance very like a thunder- 
 cloud, and her voice, as she hummed the first few notes of a 
 German song, not very unlike its distant rumbling. Yet it was 
 not the thundercloud of anger only — sadness and weariness 
 were mingled with it ; and when, a few minutes afterwards, she 
 went to put on a bonnet and shawl, intending to take a solitary 
 walk in the colonnade, it was with a listlessness which proved 
 that the walk, in itself, was no object to her. Many times she 
 paced up and down, slowly and decidedly, stopping every now 
 and then as the sound of wheels caught her ear ; but even in 
 this, there was the same indifference and languor. A carriage 
 at last entered the park, and was driving up to the house ; 
 Maude turned a corner to avoid being seen, and then looked — - 
 she did not know why, visitors were not of any importance to 
 her, and this was a hired carriage — a fly. Probably some people
 
 202 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 come to stay — the Johnstones possibly, they were expected be- 
 fore luncheon. Yes, so it was ; Mr Johnstone, with a pleasant, 
 clever, rather eager face ; and Mrs Johnstone, with a face which 
 none would remark. And there was a friend, too — a tall, ele- 
 gant-looking girl. Her features were not seen at first, she 
 lingered behind Mrs Johnstone ; but Maude caught a full view 
 of them, as some remark was made which induced her to look 
 towards the colonnade, and saw — she could not be mistaken, 
 undoubtedly it must be — Eleanor Wentworth. Maude's im- 
 pulse was a strange one — it was less surprise than irritation — 
 it made her rush down the steps from the colonnade, and hurry 
 away into the thick shrubbery, and from thence into the park ; 
 and away — she scarcely cared where — so that she might be 
 certain of solitude. 
 
 The clouds were now gathering together again, and a driving 
 mist was settling into rain ; but Maude was at no time as mind- 
 ful of weather as her health required, and though she was tired 
 with her walk, went on until a pelting shower convinced her 
 how unwise she had been, and induced her to think seriously of 
 shelter. The lodge was near, and she hurried towards it, and 
 opened the door unceremoniously. The next moment she re- 
 pented of her haste, for she was an intruder. She saw it directly, 
 as Blanche rose from a seat by the side of the sick boy's bed, 
 and closing a book from which she had been reading to him, 
 said, ' I will come and finish it to-morrow, if I can ; and you 
 will try and think about it, Johnnie, and be patient, won't you ? ' 
 
 Her hand was laid upon the little fellow's burning cheek, and 
 she bent over him and whispered, ' God bless you ! ' and as 
 Maude came forward to speak to the child herself, she per- 
 ceived Lord Rutherford also. He was standing behind a pro- 
 jecting wall, and gazing so earnestly upon Blanche, that he had 
 not noticed Maude. He came into the light as she spoke, and 
 laughed at their meeting, and said a few words in his usual 
 tone, but there was deeper thought beneath the outward indif- 
 ference, and the glance of his eye was softened as it rested upon 
 Blanche into the expression of a woman's tenderness. 
 
 ' We can go now, I think, dear papa,' said Blanche, drawing 
 near to him. 
 
 He was generally cold, even to her, in the presence of others; 
 but now he put his arm around her and kissed her. They 
 stood together by the side of the child's bed. Maude watched 
 them with an indefinable feeling of repose.
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 203 
 
 ' We will come again to-morrow,' said Blanche, appealing to 
 her father. 
 
 ' Yes, to-morrow, if we can. He will be better then, we 
 hope ; and we must remember what he wants. I will speak 
 about it myself.' 
 
 ' Thank you — thank you,' said Blanche ; — ' so very much : ' 
 and the child tried to sit up, and thanked him also ; and Lord 
 Rutherford turned hastily away, for he would not for worlds it 
 should be seen that a tear glistened in his eye. 
 
 ' This is not weather for you to be out in, Maude,' said 
 Blanche, as, the shower being over, they left the cottage to- 
 gether, the earl lingering behind. ' I was half afraid of it my- 
 self, and I am much stronger than you are.' 
 
 ' It is better at least than the weather within,' replied Maude, 
 shortly. ' You seldom sit in the drawing-room in the morning; 
 so you don't know what it is. But I wonder you ventured so 
 far from home when you were expecting Eleanor Wentworth.' 
 
 She said this bitterly ; and, when Blanche turned round in 
 extreme surprise, she saw that Maude's lip was curling with 
 pride and anger. 
 
 ' I don't want to blame you, Blanche,' began Maude again ; 
 but Blanche interrupted her with questions as to her meaning. 
 Could she be sure that it was Eleanor ? did she know whether 
 Lady Charlton was annoyed? and similar inquiries, which were 
 a very evident proof that Eleanor's visit was entirely unexpected. 
 Maude's irritated face was gradually soothed as the conviction 
 strengthened, yet her only reply was, ' One can't doubt you, 
 Blanche ; but don't hurry on in that way. Must you see Miss 
 Wentworth immediately ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; no; there is no absolute necessity. Why must I not 
 go ? ' inquired Blanche. 
 
 ' Simply because I must speak to you first,' answered Maude. 
 ' Can I not have a few moments of your precious time ? ' she 
 added, as Blanche seemed inclined to wait for Lord Rutherford. 
 
 ' Yes, of course, presently ; but I must not leave him to walk 
 home alone ; ' and Blanche turned back and put her arm within 
 her father's. They walked on silently. Blanche was too much 
 perplexed and annoyed at Eleanor's unforeseen arrival even to 
 mention her name. 
 
 ' I may come to you before dinner, papa ; may I not ? ' she 
 said, as they reached the house, and Lord Rutherford stood, 
 apparently expecting her to enter.
 
 204 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Maude touched her arm impatiently. ' If you slay here, 
 Blanche, you will be seen. I must have you ; this way ' — and 
 she would have drawn her into the colonnade. 
 
 Blanche resisted. ' I may come and seal your letters, papa, 
 at five o'clock ; may I not ? ' she inquired again. Lord Ruther- 
 ford smiled. Maude, eager as she was, could not help noticing 
 the fondness of his manner. 
 
 1 Good-bye,' said Blanche, lightly. ' I am going with Maude 
 now.' 
 
 She followed her cousin through the colonnade, and Lord 
 Rutherford stood at the door, and watched them till they had 
 turned the angle of the building ; and, even when they were out 
 of sight, he still lingered, as if unwilling even for those few 
 minutes to lose sight of her. 
 
 1 And now, Blanche, answer me,' exclaimed Maude, when 
 they were alone ; ' only once, tell me plainly, did you not expect 
 Eleanor to-day ? ' 
 
 ' I have told you in all but the exact words — why do you ask 
 me again ? ' 
 
 ' Because — the world is a strange world — more strange 
 every day — more irritating, aggravating, enraging.' Maude 
 walked on so rapidly, that Blanche found it difficult to keep up 
 with her. 
 
 ' Adelaide, and the Cuthbert Greys, and that bore, Lord 
 Erlsmere, and Eleanor Wentworth — they are all alike ; not one 
 better than the other,' continued Maude. ' If they were twenty 
 times your friends, Blanche, I must say it.' 
 
 ' But, my dear Maude, pray — if you would only be clear — - 
 only tell me what you are thinking of. You really make me 
 impatient ! ' 
 
 ' Then I make you what I am myself/ answered Maude. ' I 
 need not do that either,' she added, in a lower and graver 
 tone ; ' but you are too good for them, Blanche ; and I cannot 
 bear to see you deluded. Why do you put faith in Eleanor 
 Wentworth ? ' 
 
 ' Eleanor ! she is my friend ; we were brought up together ; 
 whom can I put faith in besides ? ' inquired Blanche, in rather 
 a frightened tone. 
 
 ' In me/ exclaimed' Maude, sarcastically. ' I should not 
 treat you as Eleanor Wentworth does.' Then seeing that 
 Blanche was silent from astonishment, she added, ' You did 
 not know that she was expected to-day ; but Adelaide did.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 2^5 
 
 Blanche remembered the handwriting she had seen, and could 
 not doubt the assertion. ' I am not jealous,' continued Maude. 
 ' I don't want to win your affection, or any of that romantic 
 nonsense ; so you need not think I have any double meaning.' 
 
 ' Double ? oh, no ! impossible ! ' interrupted Blanche. 
 
 ' Not so impossible as you may think. People don't tell 
 tales of one another, generally, without some meaning. Mine 
 is to put you on your guard, and make you see that Eleanor 
 Wentworth is too much a friend of Adelaide's to be a friend of 
 yours too.' 
 
 ' But indeed, Maude, you wrong me very much,' exclaimed 
 Blanche. ' I know that Eleanor is what some people would 
 call a friend of Adelaide's ; that is, they are glad to see 
 each other, and laugh and talk together ; but that sort of thing 
 is totally different from her feeling for me. I cannot imagine 
 how it should stand in her way.' 
 
 ' Has it not stood in the way ? ' inquired Maude, coolly. 
 ' Why did not Miss Wentworth tell you she was coming here 
 to-day ? ' 
 
 'Because — for a thousand reasons. I will go and ask her;' and 
 she would have hurried away, if Maude had not detained her. 
 
 ' Blanche, how long will you be a child, trusting and deceived? 
 I tell you I know Eleanor Wentworth better than you do. She 
 is Adelaide's friend ; and like her — vain, frivolous, — worldly ; 
 that is the word you will understand.' 
 
 ' No ; that she never was, and never will be,' exclaimed 
 Blanche, with energy. ' I will not listen to you, Maude ; it is 
 unfair to Eleanor. She was my first friend, and I will not hear 
 her spoken ill of without giving her the opportunity of defend- 
 ing herself. I will ask her for an explanation.' 
 
 ' Ask, ask if you will/ answered Maude ; ' and make her tell 
 you why she keeps up a constant correspondence with Adel- 
 aide ; and why Adelaide's letters are never to be seen. Ask 
 her whether she is not encouraging her in that utter folly which 
 went on at Rutherford ; the very thought of it would make me 
 ill, if I did not know that Adelaide can carry on as many flirta- 
 tions as there are days in the year, so that there is no real 
 danger ; but Miss Wentworth should never have demeaned 
 herself to bear any part in it ; she should ' 
 
 Blanche broke in upon the sentence. ' Maude,' she said, 
 earnestly, ' you are making me very unhappy ; any facts would 
 be better than these vague hints.'
 
 206 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Maude's tone of angry sarcasm changed into one of quiet 
 seriousness, when she saw that Blanche was really distressed. 
 ' I have spoken in this way/ she said, ' because I have no actual 
 facts to bring forward ; only convictions of my own, from ob- 
 servation. You know as well as I do how Adelaide behaved at 
 Rutherford, and how annoyed mamma was. I did not tell you, 
 Blanche, half how disgusting the whole affair was to me. I 
 don't know whether I am more fastidious than the rest of the 
 world ; but when I see that sort of thing going on, it makes me 
 hate myself for being one of the same race. Mamma thought 
 it would be all over when Adelaide came here, Avhich was more 
 than I did ; at least, I was sure that if she did not flirt with 
 Mr Wentworth, she would with some one else ; and so she has 
 done, as you may have seen. Adelaide is one of those persons 
 who can't look or speak without flirting ; but I did not know till 
 a few days ago, that she has not given up the old folly. I sus- 
 pected it from seeing letters come frequently in Miss Went- 
 worth's handwriting, and I taxed Adelaide with it, and she tried 
 to turn off the subject, but she could not deceive me. And now 
 suddenly, without any invitation from my mother, they have 
 contrived that Miss Wentworth shall come here. What for, 
 I can't pretend to say ; but I should have supposed that pride 
 alone might have prevented her from intruding herself where 
 she must be aware she is not welcome.' Maude paused ; but 
 Blanche, without venturing to reply, walked slowly and thought- 
 fully towards the entrance of the house. ' You will not believe 
 me, now ? ' said Maude, following her. 
 
 Blanche turned round quickly. ' What would you say, if I 
 believed accusations against you, before I had given you the 
 opportunity of explanation ? ' 
 
 ' You would believe them instantly,' exclaimed Maude ; ' but 
 your affection deceives you in this case.' 
 
 ' And have I no affection for you, Maude ? ' 
 
 There was a quivering movement about Maude's harsh, de- 
 cided mouth. She threw herself upon a bench, and when Blanche 
 stooped to kiss her, her cheek was wet with tears. 
 
 ' Dear Maude,' said Blanche kindly, and she sat down by her. 
 A proud struggle was visible on Maude's face. 
 
 'Not pity !' she exclaimed. 'Save me from pity. After all, 
 what does it signify to me, if the world is made up of hypocrites. 
 I don't mean you, Blanche,' she added, laughing in spite of 
 herself at poor Blanche's expression of wonder and horror ;
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 207 
 
 ' you don't belong to the world ; but it is so wearing to live 
 day aner day with people one despises ; to see no beauty, no 
 goodness anywhere, except — I see it in you ; but it is weak 
 goodness — superstition.' 
 
 ' Yet I am happy,' said Blanche, quickly, ' and you are not.' 
 
 A crimson flush dyed Maude's sallow cheek, and then it faded 
 away to a deadly paleness, and she answered, ' If I am not 
 happy, it is because I was not born to be deceived.' 
 
 ' Suspicion is deceit,' said Blanche ; ' because it makes us 
 believe evil to exist where it does not.' 
 
 ' But it does exist; one sees it everywhere,' exclaimed Maude; 
 ' only it puts on a mask. Look at that woman, Mrs Cuthbert 
 Grey, my mother's idol. Such a good churchwoman ! a perfect 
 example ! reads sermons by the hundreds, and buys good little 
 books by cartloads. I have heard her talk until, if I had not 
 known her, I could have supposed she was St Cuthbert, instead 
 of Mrs Cuthbert ; but I sat in the drawing-room this morning, 
 and watched her toadying Lord Erlsmere, in hopes of making 
 him fall in love with her eldest girl, until I could bear it no 
 longer. If I had had a scourge,. I verily believe I should have 
 used it.' 
 
 ' One might be tempted to do so, sometimes,' said Blanche, 
 smiling, ' if one might begin upon one's-self.' 
 
 ' One's-self !' and Maude's face became very sad; 'but I must 
 leave that, and I did not intend to talk of Mrs Cuthbert Grey, 
 only the woman drives me wild. You may as well go, Blanche ; 
 you won't be undeceived, so you must follow your own course.' 
 
 Blanche did not like to go; Maude's face was so worn and 
 harassed that it grieved her to look at it. ' I should like to 
 make you happier, Maude,' she said, still lingering. 
 
 ' Then close my eyes, and stop my thoughts,' replied Maude, 
 bitterly. ' Thought !' and she put her hand to her forehead, as 
 if it ached terribly. ' Oh ! if one could only cease from it but 
 for one day.' 
 
 'Yet it is the great object of education, so people say, to make 
 one think,' observed Blanche. 
 
 ' Is it ? I don't know ; I never was educated. No, never,' 
 she repeated, answering her cousin's look of surprise. ' I was 
 lefc to bad governesses, and never went out of the school-room. 
 I learnt just what I chose — what I could teach myself; — histoiy 
 and geography sometimes — thought always. I began thinking 
 when I was a child — when people supposed I was playing with
 
 2o8 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 my doll : I thought about the doll, — why it did not speak— why 
 it had no mind — how it differed from me, and I have gone on 
 thinking ever since : yes, on, and on, and on, until — Blanche, 
 have you ever thought till you felt that the next step would be 
 insanity ? — That is what I have done,' she continued, without 
 waiting for an answer; 'and I have found others who have done 
 the same — clever men, men I thought I could reverence. I 
 met with them abroad ; but they were all alike — all disappoint- 
 ing in practice and differing in theory. There was no rest — 
 what one believed the others disbelieved.' 
 
 ' Can there ever be rest in the systems and theories of our 
 own forming?' said Blanche, gently. 
 
 Maude shook her head. ' Ah ! Blanche, there is our dif- 
 ference. I cannot walk blindfold. I cannot bow my intellect 
 to forms and superstitions.' 
 
 ' I hope I could not either,' replied Blanche ; ' but I am afraid 
 we can scarcely understand each other ; we have been brought 
 up so differently. I was told what was true, as a child ; I was 
 not left to find it out for myself. I was taught to obey, too, 
 before I knew the reason why. Now that I am beginning to 
 think for myself, I see that what I learnt agrees with the Bible ; 
 and if I try to follow it, it makes me happy ; I have no room, 
 therefore, for doubts.' 
 
 This was said so simply and confidently, that Maude looked 
 up in astonishment. ' We do differ, indeed,' she said, proudly. 
 ' Like you, I am a Christian ; but I must put my own interpre- 
 tation upon the Bible. To yield my opinion to the judgment 
 of others, I must be a child again.' 
 
 'Must you?' and Blanche waited for a few moments in 
 thought, and then added, — ' A grown-up person might pray to 
 be taught rightly, and might go to Church regularly, and read 
 the Bible, and try to be good as far as he knew, in spite of the 
 difficulties, and then perhaps they would go away.' 
 
 ' And that is what you would have me do,' said Maude, 
 quickly. 
 
 ' Yes, it would be better, I think — safer than argument — 
 because '— 
 
 ' Go on — go on,' said Maude, impetuously. 
 
 ' Safer,' continued Blanche, more firmly, ' because we cannot 
 doubt for ever.' 
 
 ' No; there will be certainty before long for us all,' said Maude^ 
 gravely.
 
 THE KARL'S DAUGHTER. 209 
 
 'And if it should be the certainty of all being true which we 
 doubted and thought difficult to understand,' pursued Blanche, 
 ' it would be very horrible.' Maude's brow contracted as with 
 pain. 
 
 'Very horrible! would it not?' repeated Blanche. 'If, I 
 mean, we had gone on following our own will, because we had 
 not all the certainty we wished for.' 
 
 Her voice was very tremulous as she said this; and Maude 
 saw that she turned pale. ' You are ill,' she observed. < I have 
 kept you standing too long. 
 
 ' No, not ill ; only cold,' replied Blanche ; and she wrapped 
 her shawl round her. 
 
 ' And I have kept you from Miss Wentworth,' said Maude, a 
 little sarcastically. ' That was wrong in me, too.' 
 
 Blanche tried to smile, but it was not a subject for amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 ' You really don't look at all well,' continued Maude. ' You 
 ought not to have gone out this damp day, and I have kept you 
 standing and walking till you are tired to death. Do go in and 
 rest before you see Miss Wentworth.' 
 
 Blanche repeated that it was only the cold — a fire would make 
 her quite well ; but Maude was not satisfied, and forgetting her 
 own grievances, hurried her into the house, and insisted, with the 
 most persevering and even affectionate attention, on seeing that 
 she was resting comfortably in her own room before Eleanor 
 Wentworth went to her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 NO one who had seen the Senilhurst party that evening 
 would have discovered any signs of unusual annoyance 
 cr uncongeniality, unless upon close inspection, and after 
 intimate knowledge of the characters of the persons collected 
 together. 
 
 Blanche, indeed, sat in an easy chair, looking pale and talking 
 little ; and Lord Rutherford hovered about her to ward off all 
 that might disturb her. But Blanche smiled and seem contented, 
 and her father had evidently no wish except to be near her, and 
 was quite satisfied when he found her pleased in listening to 
 
 o
 
 210 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Maude's exquisite singing, and in the intervals when there was 
 no music taking a part in a conversation he was carrying on with 
 Lady Charlton and Mr Johnstone, respecting a living in his gift 
 which was likely soon to be vacant. 
 
 So far all was well ; and what if Adelaide's manner was absent 
 and Maude's cross, if Eleanor Wentworth was shy and Lady 
 Charlton distant — these differences were not visible to the 
 common eye. There was the same polish of refinement and 
 courtesy over all, and the drawing-room at Senilhurst might 
 well have been supposed to contain as large an amount of com- 
 fort and freedom from restraint and care as could be found 
 amongst any similar portion of English society. 
 
 Blanche could not suspect evil; it was not in her nature. She 
 was, besides, far from well, and did not feel equal to thought. 
 She had not seen Eleanor for nearly half an hour after her con- 
 versation with Maude; but, when they did meet, the explanation 
 of her sudden arrival was simple enough to put to flight all the 
 suspicions which Maude would have raised. The visit to Mr 
 Johnstone had been, Eleanor said, quite unexpected. She had 
 arrived only two days before ; Mr Johnstone had insisted upon 
 bringing her to Senilhurst, as Lady Charlton had given him a 
 carte blanche to introduce any of his friends ; and her name 
 had not been mentioned merely to cause an amusing surprise to 
 Blanche. Certainly, she allowed that the secret had been en- 
 trusted to Adelaide, but this was because — she did not know 
 why, exactly ; she had been executing commissions for Adelaide 
 in London, and was writing to her about them, and that put it 
 into her head to name it. She quite supposed that Adelaide 
 would have mentioned her being in London ; but it was just like 
 her to forget. 
 
 Nothing could be more satisfactory, and Eleanor was so pleased, 
 and bright, and affectionate, so enchanted to see Blanche again, 
 so full of all the parish news of Rutherford, that it would have 
 been impossible to quarrel with her. Blanche thought, as she 
 watched her that evening, how superior she was to every one 
 else in the room — graceful, intellectual, brilliant, amiable; even 
 Lady Charlton was obliged to acquiesce in the praises that were 
 lavished upon her, although the next moment she relapsed into 
 coldness, as unpleasant recollections forced themselves upon 
 her. 
 
 ' Frances, my dear/ said Sir Hugh, who sat opposite to 
 Blanche, in a gouty chair, trying to believe, and to make other
 
 THE EAR US DA UGHTER. 2 1 1 
 
 persons believe, that he was quite well ; ' Frances, my dear — 
 my dear Lady Charlton — Frances ; ' Lady Charlton was bend- 
 ing her head low, to catch a passing observation of Mr John- 
 stone's ; music was going on at the time : did she not, or would 
 she not hear ? — ' Frances — pshaw ! — Maude, tell your mother 
 I want to speak to her.' 
 
 Lady Charlton did hear then ; she smiled sweetly upon Mr 
 Johnstone, and promised to return in an instant. 
 
 ' You wanted to say something to me, Sir Hugh. Shall I 
 ring for Pearson ? ' 
 
 ' Pearson — folly ! what are you talking of ? ' 
 
 ' Every one will excuse you/ continued Lady Charlton, quite 
 amiably ; ' I was saying to Mr Johnstone, just now, that you 
 were much later to-night than usual.' 
 
 Sir Hugh very nearly knocked away the pillows in his gouty 
 chair ; ' I tell you, Frances, I am not going. All I wanted to 
 say was,' — his voice sank confidentially, — ' that now Miss 
 Wentworlh is here, we may as well persuade her to stay. It is 
 not worth while for her to go back with Mr Johnstone. 
 
 ' Very well — yes, we will see ; to-morrow will do.' Lady 
 Charlton was hurrying away as fast as possible. 
 
 ' But listen, Frances, listen/ and Sir Hugh laid a detaining 
 hand on her dress ; ' I shall ask her presently ; I think it is 
 right. Dr Wentworth is an old family friend ; Mrs Wentworth 
 too ; very good people, highly respectable.' 
 
 Sir Hugh was gradually working himself into fit of excite- 
 ment, and Lady Charlton was in an agony lest the brilliant 
 variations upon the piano should suddenly cease. ' Very well 
 — yes, we will see/ she repeated again. 
 
 ' I like her/ continued Sir Hugh ; ' she is very handsome, 
 dresses well.' Lady Charlton's fidget increased every moment ; 
 in another minute, Thalberg's variations would infallibly come 
 to an end ; ' we will settle it at once, and then I shall go to bed.' 
 
 ' But, my dear Sir Hugh, hush — pray be quiet ; trust it to me.' 
 
 ' It is the right thing to do/ pursued Sir Hugh ; ' it will please 
 Blanche — please Lord Rutherford ; it is the sort of thing one is 
 bound to do.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, of course ; we will talk about it — only just — of 
 course you will have your own way. I will go and say a few 
 words to Mr Johnstone first.' 
 
 Sir Hugh allowed her to depart ; but she heard him mutter to 
 himself — ' It 's right, quite right ; for ten days or a fortnight
 
 21 2 
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 we shall manage very well. Her brother can come and fetch 
 her.' 
 
 Just then Eleanor left the piano, where she had been standing 
 to turn over the leaves of Miss Caroline Grey's music-book. 
 
 Lady Charlton kept Mr Johnstone's few words for a better 
 opportunity : and seizing upon Eleanor, carried her off to the 
 ante-room. 
 
 She must apologise, she said, for being a little unceremonious ; 
 but she really was anxious to obtain Miss Wentworth's co- 
 operation in a plan for detaining Mr and Mrs Johnstone a day 
 or two longer at Senilhurst. She was afraid it might be incon- 
 venient. Blanche had told her that Miss Wentworth's stay in 
 that part of the country was to be very short ; and she could 
 not, under the circumstances, say anything, however glad she 
 should have been to have had the pleasure of a long visit at 
 Senilhurst. No doubt Mrs Wentworth must be very anxious 
 for her daughter's return, and they must look forward to a future 
 occasion — a more fortunate one — when engagements on both 
 sides would not be so pressing. But there were a few days free 
 now, before the house would be full. Could not Miss Went- 
 worth persuade Mr and Mrs Johnstone to remain with her at 
 Senilhurst, if it were only till Saturday — from Wednesday till 
 Saturday ? Surely a clergyman might spare two days ; and 
 she would let them return quite early on Saturday morning, if 
 Jt were necessary. Miss Wentworth would join in the request, 
 there could be no doubt of its being granted ; and Blanche, 
 and every one would be pleased. ' Poor Blanche ! she is not 
 at all well, I am afraid,' concluded Lady Charlton. ' It was 
 very imprudent in her to go out to-day. I think, for her sake, 
 you must consent.' 
 
 Eleanor Wentworth was, in general, peculiarly self-possessed ; 
 but there was a mixture of pride and awkwardness in the cold 
 politeness of her manner, as she thanked Lady Charlton for the 
 invitation to herself, but feared it would be difficult to persuade 
 Mr Johnstone to agree to the proposal, since she knew that his 
 time was just then particularly occupied. Lady Charlton in- 
 stantly grew eager to carry her point. It would be vexatious, 
 provoking, in every way disagreeable, to be refused. She must 
 have it settled at once : she could not rest till it was. Might 
 she only say that Miss Wentworth did not object ? And in 
 answer to the acquiescence which followed the question, Lady 
 Charlton was so grateful and cordial, that Eleanor found herself
 
 THE EARLS' DAUGHTER. 213 
 
 compelled to reciprocate civilities, and be extremely obliged for 
 an attention which was the very least she had a right to expect. 
 A short conversation of entreaty with Mr Johnstone followed, 
 and Lady Charlton presently returned to Sir Hugh, pleased and 
 placid. She had gained the point he wished, Miss Wentworth 
 was going to stay ; how long she did not say, and Sir Hugh 
 happily did not ask ; but soothed by the apparent obedience to 
 his will, consented to retire for the night. 
 
 Blanche had observed part of the progress of this arrange. 
 ment, and understood it. She had little to do on that evening 
 except to observe, and there was considerable food for thought 
 in all she saw, even though much lay concealed from her usual 
 unsuspiciousness. Maude's face was one which particularly 
 engaged her attention. It was more than commonly sarcastic. 
 She spoke but little to Blanche ; and, when she was not called 
 upon to sing, devoted herself principally to Lord Erlsmere, 
 whom she engaged in a disquisition upon universal suffrage, 
 which kept him engrossed for more than half the evening, much 
 to the annoyance of Mrs Cuthbert Grey. Blanche could 
 scarcely help smiling at the cleverness with which Maude 
 managed to defeat all the mother's manoeuvres in her daughter's 
 favour. Yet it left a very disagreeable impression upon her 
 mind, unfavourable to all parties except Lord Erlsmere. 
 Blanche did not feel obliged to Maude for having withdrawn 
 the veil, and giving her an insight into what was going on 
 behind the scenes. It was low, un-ladylike, to say nothing 
 more ; and as she looked on, and found herself attributing 
 motives, and suspecting double meanings, she felt ashamed of 
 herself if she also was, in a measure, a party to the conduct 
 which she disapproved. 
 
 < I think you had better go to bed, my love,' said the earl, 
 coming behind her chair, when the time-piece struck ten 
 o'clock. ' You can slip away without being noticed.' 
 
 Blanche prepared to go, for she was very tired. 
 
 Maude, who was standing near the door, stopped her when 
 she was leaving the room. ' Are you going, Blanche ? — good 
 night.' 
 
 ' Good night,' said Blanche, cheerfully ; ' will you tell 
 Eleanor to come to me presently ? ' 
 
 ' If you wish it — if I must.' 
 
 ' Why, is there any objection ? ' asked Blanche ; ' I shall not 
 keep her long.'
 
 214 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Forewarned, forearmed/ said Maude, coldly. 
 
 Blanche looked seriously annoyed, and answered, ' You 
 cannot make me suspicious, Maude. After all you said this 
 afternoon, there was nothing that could not be explained.' 
 
 ' Time will prove,' said Maude, in the same provoking tone. 
 
 Blanche turned away angrily ; but she could not bear to part 
 in such a spirit, and the next instant she smiled, and offered 
 her hand to her cousin. 
 
 The hand was retained, and Maude, looking at her anxiously 
 and kindly, said, ' You must be better to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Yes, I hope so ; I am nearly sure I shall be.' 
 
 ' And you will promise to sleep well ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, if I can ; the extent of this world's promises.' 
 
 ' Well, then, good night once more ; ' and Maude walked 
 away to the piano, and Blanche left the drawing-room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 BLANCHE was not at all sorry that the evening was over. 
 When she sat down alone in her room, she looked and 
 felt wearied in mind and body, and was quite startled at the 
 haggard expression of her own face, as she caught sight of her 
 features in a glass. Illness might be one reason for her being 
 depressed ; there was nothing else particularly to cause it, but 
 she felt very solitary, all the more so, perhaps, because there 
 were so many about her. Yet she ought not to be solitary 
 when Eleanor was in the house ; a year before she would have 
 said that she needed no other companionship. And why 
 should she now ? What change had come over her ? Her 
 mind travelled back to the days that were past : long past 
 they seemed, but that was a delusion ; it was but a short time ; 
 yet the gray, weather-stained walls of the old manor-house, the 
 green walks, the trim holly hedge, the antique dial, and all the 
 associations connected with them, were as the clear, yet faded 
 visions of a distant land ; and the voice of the friend who had 
 loved her from infancy, though sweet to her recollection, was 
 very faint, as the dying notes of music which we shall never 
 hear again. It is hard to realise the death of our own life ; we 
 never do so whilst our childish associations are unbroken. The
 
 THE EARL'S DA UGHTER. 2 \ 5 
 
 thought of it came to Blanche's mind with awe and sadness, as 
 she tried to recall the forms of those by-gone days from which 
 the spirit had departed to bear an undying record before God. 
 Happy they had been, very happy and blest — more blest than 
 the present — more innocent and guileless ; and they could 
 never in any way return ; years could never restore ignorance, 
 they could never make to her unknown what once was known ; 
 they could never bring back confidence where it had been 
 disappointed. Years — they stretched far, far out, interminably 
 it seemed ; and they must be met, endured, with all their 
 possible trials, with the risk, the possibility of — Blanche shud- 
 dered, her heart grew faint ; it was a real, physical faintness, 
 for the next instant a sharp pain shot through her frame, and 
 she leant back in her chair, and gasped for breath. 
 
 Eleanor Went worth knocked at the door. Blanche said, 
 ' Coming,' as loudly as she could. The pain had been only 
 momentary, and she did not like to think of it. 
 
 ' Not undressed, Blanche ! ' said Eleanor, as she came up to 
 her ; ' that is very naughty.' 
 
 ' I sat by the fire, thinking,' replied Blanche, ' and expecting 
 you. Why did you not come before ? ' 
 
 1 I did not miss you at first when you went ; and your cousin 
 Maude only told me to come to you a few minutes ago/ replied 
 Eleanor. 
 
 ' Maude is very strange,' said Blanche, thoughtfully. ' But 
 tell me, Eleanor ; I understood a great deal that went on down- 
 stairs, though I only heard half. How long are you to stay ? ' 
 
 ' Two days,' answered Eleanor, shortly. 
 
 ' Two days only ? ' 
 
 1 Lady Charlton has not given me the opportunity of staying 
 longer.' 
 
 ' It is vexatious,' said Blanche, ' very.' 
 
 ' Yes, and to find you not well, besides ; and to have seen so 
 little of you all the evening. However, one must bear it, and 
 be thankful, I suppose.' 
 
 Blanche was chilled, for Eleanor's tone was petulant. ' We 
 shall be able to talk to-morrow,' she said, soothingly ; ' and, 
 Eleanor, you must not be hard upon my aunt ; she has reasons, 
 you know, for not being quite as cordial as one could wish.' 
 
 Eleanor's cheek flushed with deep crimson, and she exclaimed, 
 ' Of course, I know. She does not consider the son of a country 
 clergyman a fit connection for her family. Yet I could tell her
 
 2 1 6 THE EARLS DA UGHTER. 
 
 that the Wentwortlis are an older race than any other in the 
 county.' 
 
 ' It is not the question of family ; indeed, you must not think 
 
 that,' said Blanche, earnestly. ' If your brother ' She 
 
 stopped, for the observation might have been an awkward 
 one. 
 
 ' I understand what you would say,' replied Eleanor, with an 
 air of great candour. ' If my brother was a dashing man of 
 fashion, with his four or five thousand a year ; or even if he 
 had the promise of a good living, with a deanery or bishopric 
 in perspective, Lady Charlton would not let the question of 
 family interfere ; but being, as he is, about to take orders, and 
 live a quiet serious life as a curate in a country village, she 
 does not deem it a suitable prospect. I do not blame her — I 
 do not know that any one could ; only, Adelaide may go 
 farther and fare worse.' 
 
 Blanche was more perplexed than before what to say. The 
 tone Eleanor was adopting was quite new to her. She seemed 
 to think the affair serious. 
 
 ' You do Charles injustice yourself,' continued Eleanor. 
 ' When you saw him flirting — for he did flirt, I grant, at 
 Rutherford — you put him down as a silly, vain young man : he 
 is very far from that : or, at least, if he is vain, he has great 
 counterbalancing qualities. All that frippery and folly will go 
 when he is ordained.' 
 
 Blanche was silent. 
 
 ' What are you thinking of ? ' asked Eleanor. Her voice was 
 nervously eager, and she repeated again, — ' What are you think- 
 ing of? I must know.' 
 
 ' Should it not go before he is ordained ? ' asked Blanche, 
 quietly. 
 
 Eleanor drew back for an instant ; then she answered, 
 hurriedly — ' Yes, yes, certainly ; before — -at the time when he 
 is ordained. He will be quite a different person by and by, you 
 will see.' 
 
 < But will by and by do ? ' pursued Blanche. ' Can it ever 
 be right to take such a responsibility without being very de- 
 voted — very good, beforehand — a long time beforehand ? ' she 
 added, becoming bolder. 
 
 Eleanor's face showed much more vexation than the occasion 
 seemed to warrant ; but she only replied, — ' Well ! well ! we 
 won't talk of it now, Blanche. You are prejudiced, I am afraid ;
 
 THE EARL'S 1). 1 I \ ,7/ TER. 2 1 7 
 
 so is Lady Charlton. We won't spoil our few hours together by 
 discussion.' 
 
 Blanche looked sorry, and observed it was very foolish of 
 her to say such things ; it must seem unkind, when Eleanor 
 was so fond of her brother ; but it was hard to keep back her 
 opinions, where she had been accustomed to tell them so openly. 
 
 Eleanor was standing near the fire. She bent down and 
 kissed Blanche, and fixed her eyes upon her intently, but with- 
 out speaking. 
 
 ' 1 may tell you all I think, may I not ? ' said Blanche, 
 answering the look. 
 
 There was another pause. Eleanor's eyes glistened ; she 
 seemed lost in thought. 
 
 ' May I not ? ' repeated Blanche. 
 
 ' Yes, all ; undoubtedly. You are very tired : shall I ring 
 for your maid ? ' 
 
 < In a minute ; only I am so afraid I have pained you. 5 
 
 Eleanor answered by another kiss — warm, affectionate, as in 
 the years of their happy intercourse at St Ebbe's. 
 
 The bell was rang, Eleanor departed, and Blanche was left 
 to think over what had been said, and to ponder upon the cause 
 of that sharp, warning, momentary agony ; — what did it mean ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ELEANOR'S step, as she moved along the gallery from 
 Blanche's room was stealthy and quick ; but she paused 
 at the top of the staircase to listen to what was going on below. 
 All the guests not staying in the house had taken their leave ; 
 and now there were parting good-nights and cheerful last words 
 said as the rest of the party broke up. She heard Mr John- 
 stone and Lady Charlton speaking of the plans for the next day. 
 That was a satisfaction, as it showed that he had not changed 
 his mind about remaining at Seniihurst. Eleanor had a half 
 inclination to go down again and inquire of Mrs Johnstone, to 
 be quite sure of the fact ; but the sight of Maude coming up 
 the stairs had a sudden effect upon her intentions, and with the 
 same quick and quiet step as before, she went on, reached the 
 farther end of the gallery, and. ooening a door which led to the
 
 2 1 8 THE EARL'S DA UGHTER. 
 
 apartments in the east wing, found her way amidst passages 
 and turnings to a small sitting-room, out of which two doors 
 opened. A hasty double-knock at one of these was answered 
 by Adelaide Charlton, who exclaimed, ' Come at last, Eleanor ! ' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! ' and Eleanor put her finger to her lips. 
 ' Maude will be here in one instant ; let me in.' 
 
 Adelaide threw open the door, which Eleanor took care to 
 bolt again ; and then Adelaide, motioning to Eleanor to sit down 
 by the fire, said, ' Well ! what success ? what does Blanche 
 think ? ' 
 
 ' My dear Adelaide ! how wild you are. Blanche, of course, 
 thinks nothing, and knows nothing.' 
 
 ' What ! have you not asked her ? ' 
 
 ' No, not this evening. I only sounded her a little.' 
 
 ' Sound ! ' repeated Adelaide, in a tone of vexation. ' But, 
 what is there to hinder you from speaking out at once ? Why 
 can't you say, Your father will have a living in his gift soon, and 
 I wish he would promise it to my brother ? ' 
 
 ' O Adelaide ! can't you understand ? — to ask a favour ! — to 
 put one's-self under an obligation! there is nothing more difficult.' 
 
 ' But not between friends — persons like you and Blanche, 
 who were brought up together.' 
 
 Adelaide threw herself back in an easy-chair, and angrily 
 pushing aside a footstool, continued, ' I sec how it is ; we are 
 resting upon a broken reed. I told Charles it would be so long 
 ago.' 
 
 ' You may say what you will, Adelaide,' replied Eleanor, with 
 some dignity of manner. ' If you will not trust me, you must 
 take your own way ; but one thing I am quite sure of, that 
 mine is the only right and wise one.' 
 
 ' I don't see why he is to be tied down to that odious profes- 
 sion,' observed Adelaide, petulantly. 
 
 1 Merely because his whole education has been a preparation 
 for it,' said Eleanor ; ' and that it would break my mother's 
 heart if he were to give it up.' 
 
 ' But he does not like it ; he is not fit for it," said Adelaide. 
 
 ' Yes, begging your pardon, he does like it, and he is fit for 
 it, when you do not influence him against it.' 
 
 ' A thousand pities he ever knew me, then,' said Adelaide, 
 sharply. 
 
 Eleanor did not contradict her. She only answered, ' It is 
 too late to think of that now, when you are engaged.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 219 
 
 • Who brought on the engagement ? ' asked Adelaide, satiri- 
 cally. 
 
 ' Do you repent it ? ' said Eleanor. 
 
 < Repent ! oh dear, no ! not in the least ! What a strange 
 notion ! do you ? ' 
 
 Eleanor was silent. 
 
 ' Do you ? ' again repeated Adelaide ; and Eleanor was com- 
 pelled to answer. 
 
 < I should not if you would be what you have promised.' 
 
 ' What I have promised to be when I am married,' repeated 
 Adelaide. ' It will be time enough to think of that by and by.' 
 
 ' It would be better to begin at once.' 
 
 ' We won't sermonise,' exclaimed Adelaide, impatiently. ' You 
 know I have an insurmountable objection to sermons. If any 
 harm comes of our engagement, Eleanor, you will have no one 
 to thank for it but yourself. When Charles and I were at 
 Rutherford, we had no more idea of anything serious, than we 
 have now of travelling to the moon. It was entirely through 
 correspondence, and messages, and that sort of thing, that the 
 affair came to a point. I declare I should have forgotten him 
 by this time, if you had not so constantly reminded me of him.' 
 
 ' I was obliged to repeat what he said,' replied Eleanor ; 
 conscience reproaching her for untruth as she uttered the words. 
 
 ' Well ! obliged or not obliged, you managed to make me 
 think of him, and this is the consequence ; and, having led us into 
 the scrape, all you can possibly do now is to help us out of it. 
 The idea of going to mamma with the news that I am engaged 
 to a man, without any prospect but a country curacy, is an 
 absurdity ; I won't do it.' 
 
 ' But if you must ? ' 
 
 ' There is no must ; I don't acknowledge any.' 
 
 ' And the alternative will be — what ? ' 
 
 Adelaide laughed heartily. ' I am not going to let you into 
 all our secrets, Eleanor ; you know too much already. Trust 
 us, if you will not manage matters for us, we shall manage them 
 somehow for ourselves ; and soon, too. I have no notion of 
 hanging on, from week to week, in this way. It destroys all 
 the pleasure of one's present life, without giving one a prospect 
 of anything better.' 
 
 1 Charles is obliged to you,' said Eleanor, gravely. ' I should 
 have thought that, being certain of his affection, you might have 
 been well contented to wait till he can come forward openly.'
 
 2 2o THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 i His affection ! yes, of course, I am certain of that, and satis- 
 fied. But it is a little, — however, I won't frighten your pro- 
 priety ; only, perhaps, you can understand that now and then i! 
 is just a wee bit uncomfortable to go about the world with one's 
 hands and feet tied ; and not to be able to mention it. One 
 moves awkwardly.' 
 
 ' There may be something in that,' said Eleanor, thoughtfully. 
 ' But, what is still more important, I am sure it is not quite right. 
 Your mother and my mother ought to know it. I, for one, 
 should be miserable at the concealment, if there were not such 
 good reasons for it at present, and if 
 
 ' Well — what ? What salve have you found for that very 
 fidgety conscience of yours ? ' 
 
 ' Very sufficient salve,' replied Eleanor. ' You and Charles 
 settled your affairs yourselves. I was no party to the actual 
 engagement.' 
 
 ' That is,' exclaimed Adelaide, her eyes sparkling with irri- 
 tation, ' you showed us the road, and led us to the point, and 
 gave us a little push, and then hurried away, that you might be 
 able to say you did not see. O Eleanor ! ' 
 
 Eleanor blushed ; yet she could not rest without a further 
 effort at self-vindication. 
 
 ' You are exaggerating,' she said. ' I did not know what was 
 going to happen. I scarcely ever suspected it. When Charles 
 told me you were engaged, I was utterly amazed.' 
 
 ' Then what did you think we were about ? ' inquired Adel- 
 aide. ' What pretty game were we playing ? ' 
 
 Eleanor was too much ashamed to reply. How could she 
 own that she had calculated upon Mr Wentworth's unsteadiness 
 of disposition, and Adelaide's habit of flirting, and suffered her- 
 self to encourage them in folly, whilst deluding herself by 
 thinking it would come to nothing ? And all this partly from 
 a weak wish to please her brother ; partly from finding a silly 
 pleasure in watching an affair of the kind for the first time, and 
 feeling herself a person of importance ; and partly from the 
 secret desire to keep up an acquaintance which promised a good 
 deal of amusement, and possibly an introduction by and by to 
 gayer society than she could meet with at Rutherford. 
 
 It was very unlike the conduct to be expected from Mrs 
 Howard's pupil ; but, perhaps, the person whom it would least 
 have surprised was Mrs Howard herself. Eleanor was not so 
 very different now from what she had been in former days.
 
 THE /■:. IRL'S P. 1 1 \i!I TER. 2 2 \ 
 
 Circumstances had brought out the weak points of her character, 
 and rendered their consequences more important ; but the 
 original faults were the same — vanity and love of excitement — 
 known and acknowledged, but never thoroughly struggled 
 against. 
 
 ' I don't like this new mood of yours,' said Adelaide, after a 
 pause, finding that Eleanor sat abstractedly gazing on the fire. 
 ' I had looked forward to your coming as the end of all my diffi- 
 culties. I thought you would go at once to Blanche. — entreat 
 her compassion ; and then, when we had engaged Lord Ruther- 
 ford's interest, that the thing would have been known and 
 settled.' 
 
 Eleanor could not help smiling in spite cf herself. ' Adel- 
 aide, when will you learn common sense ? How can you 
 imagine it possible to settle a business like this in a minute ? 
 Even supposing I could bring Blanche over to your side, and 
 supposing Lord Rutherford were to promise Charles twenty 
 thousand a year, instead of a living worth twelve hundred, how 
 can you suppose that Lady Charlton would be brought round in 
 such a moment ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! there are two strings to that bow,' replied Adelaide. 
 ' If mamma will not consent, papa will ; that I am quite sure 
 of. Pearson told my maid, the other day, that he was wonder- 
 fully fond of Charles, and meant to have him asked here. I don't 
 want that though, just yet.' 
 
 ' No, indeed ;' and Eleanor inwardly trembled at the storms 
 which might arise from so imprudent a step. 
 
 ' I don't see why you should say " No, indeed ! " in that 
 tone,' exclaimed Adelaide. ' I don't want it to be just yet ; 
 but I don't know why you should be so afraid. We are not 
 quite such babies as not to understand keeping our own 
 counsel.' 
 
 ' There are eyes about you,' said Eleanor. 
 
 ' Mamma ! yes, she is a regular Argus.' 
 
 ' And your sister.' 
 
 ' That is to be considered, certainly ; I am awfully afraid of 
 Maude.' 
 
 ' So am I,' replied Eleanor. 
 
 ' She is a person to be afraid of; tough, leathery,' said Adel- 
 aide. ' She never did a foolish thing from the time she was 
 born. And she can look through one when she chooses it. I 
 declare, if it was not for her German metaphysics, I could not
 
 222 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 live in the house with her. Happily, they make her so puzzle- 
 headed that she only sees one-half of what is going on.' 
 
 There was a loud angry knock at the door. Adelaide started, 
 and exclaimed, ' That is her knock.' 
 
 Eleanor turned pale. ' Are you sure she does not see more 
 than one-half already ? ' she asked, in a whisper. 
 
 Adelaide made no answer. Eleanor took up her candle to 
 go. ' Adelaide and I have been gossiping,' she said, as an 
 explanation to Maude, when the door was opened. ' It is very 
 foolish, I own.' 
 
 Maude took no notice. ' You have some books of mine, 
 which I want, Adelaide,' she said. 
 
 Eleanor felt herself growing nervous ; and, to hide her con- 
 fusion, would have pretended to search for the volumes wanted ; 
 but Maude prevented her. There was no occasion for Miss 
 Wentworth to trouble herself, she said. Adelaide knew quite 
 well where the books were ; and, as she spoke, she placed her- 
 self near the doorway, in such a position that Eleanor was com- 
 pelled to confront her. Her glance was proud and searching ; 
 and Eleanor shrank from it. 
 
 " Good-night ! Adelaide,' she said, in as light a tone as she 
 could assume. She would have given her hand to Maude, but 
 it was not taken. 
 
 ' Good-night, Miss Wentworth/ was repeated, haughtily ; 
 and Eleanor went to her room, humbled and unhappy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 IT was about a week from that time, — the weather was cold 
 and bleak, even for the autumn, and as the rough blasts 
 howled round the old parsonage at Rutherford, and the rain 
 pelted against the latticed windows, Dr Wentworth drew his 
 chair near to the fire, and congratulated himself that his work for 
 the day was over — that there was no case of illness in the 
 parish requiring his attention, and that it was not a night for 
 the evening-school, or for any other duty which would expose 
 himself or his parishioners to such inclement weather. 
 
 ' I wish Charles was equally safe from it,' said Mrs Went- 
 worth, who sat at work opposite her husband. She was cutting
 
 THE EAR US DAUGHTER. 223 
 
 out baby clothes, and from the full attention which she bestowed 
 upon the occupation, it might have been supposed that she 
 esteemed it the most important duty of her life. 
 
 Dr Wentworth looked up in answer to the remark, and said, 
 in an apologetic tone, that he had not forgotten Charles, but 
 that young men thought nothing of weather when there was a 
 dinner party in question. 
 
 ' And I should hope not when many other things are in 
 question,' replied Mrs Wentworth ; ' but that does not pre- 
 vent one, I am afraid, from thinking of it for them. How- 
 ever, Charles must accustom himself to brave a great many 
 worse trials than weather ; so it may be as well for him to begin 
 at once.' 
 
 She relapsed again into silence, and Dr Wentworth read to 
 himself. Nearly half an hour went by in this way ; Mrs Went- 
 worth worked unremittingly. There was something almost 
 painful in the energy with which she cut, and folded, and 
 squared; placing piece after piece in a basket that stood on 
 the table by her side. To look at her face, with its expression 
 of intellect and resolution, one might have said that it was a 
 waste of power to throw so much vigour into a mere mechanical 
 employment. 
 
 ' A quarter to ten,' observed Dr Wentworth, looking at his 
 watch, — ' time for the servants to be called in, my dear.' 
 
 'Yes, if you please; will you ring the bell?' and, with the 
 same quiet determination of manner, Mrs Wentworth moved 
 away her work to another part of the room, placed a Bible on 
 the table, arranged the chairs for the servants, and prepared to 
 join in the nightly family service. It was very simple and short 
 — a few verses from the New Testament, with a few words of 
 comment, and prayer. Yet there was something very touching 
 and impressive in the earnest exhortation which besought all 
 who were present to cast their care upon One who cared for 
 them — whether it were care for others or themselves — for the 
 needs of the body or the claims of the imperishable soul. Mrs 
 Wentworth sat with her hands placed one upon the other, and 
 her eyes bent upon the floor ; not a muscle of her features 
 moved, and her voice, as she joined in the supplications which 
 followed, was clear and firm, until the petition for the absent 
 and the loved. Then for a moment it sank ; but no one noticed 
 the change, for none saw the secrets of the mother's heart, save 
 He who had formed it.
 
 224 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 'Do you mean to sit up for Charles, my dear?' said Dr 
 Wentworth, when the service was concluded. 
 
 ' I had thought of doing so ; he promised to be home early.' 
 
 ' But you will do him no good, and will only tire yourself. 
 You had much better not.' 
 
 ' I have some work to finish,' replied Mrs Wentworth, pre- 
 paring to resume her former employment. 
 
 Dr Wentworth saw it was useless to remonstrate. He said, 
 half playfully, and half in atone of vexation, 'Well, you must 
 have your own way — wilful women always do. Only don't ask 
 me to sit up with you.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth smiled, and disowned all intention of inflict- 
 ing such a penance upon him ; and Dr Wentworth went away. 
 
 The room looked dreary then. It is strange how much there 
 is in association ; how different a solitary hour is before a house- 
 hold has been broken up for the night and afterwards. Though 
 the fire may blaze just as cheerfully, and the lamp give the same 
 bright light, a sense of loneliness, almost of awe, insensibly 
 creeps over one. Mrs Wentworth might have experienced some- 
 thing of the kind, for she soon gave up her work and tried to 
 read ; and after a time, putting aside the book, walked about 
 the room, and listened for the trampling of a horse, though she 
 knew her son was not likely to return for the next hour. 
 
 That hour and another passed, and he did not come. Mrs 
 Wentworth was not at all anxious ; she was not a nervous 
 person, and she did not think that any accident had happened, 
 but she did think that Charles had been induced to stay longer 
 than he had purposed. It was a slight fault, if it could be 
 called one ; but she was not in a mood to be lenient to slight 
 faults. She grew more and more restless, more and more 
 visibly annoyed ; and when, at length, the bell rang, and her 
 son appeared, she greeted him with, ' You are an hour and a 
 half beyond the time you mentioned, Charles. Has anything 
 happened ?' 
 
 ' Nothing — nothing at all,' was the answer. ' Am I so late ? 
 — I did not know it.' He took out his watch — ' Not much 
 more than an hour — I really could not help it.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth did not directly reply, but as she lighted her 
 candle to go to bed, she said : — ' It is a great pity, Charles, 
 that you cannot learn to be exact. If you had told me you 
 should not be home till twelve, I should have known what to 
 expect.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 225 
 
 Mr Wentworth looked provoked. ' My dear mother, I 
 really beg your pardon, but — you must excuse me, — I did 
 not ask you to sit up.' He had no sooner said the words 
 than he was vexed with himself for it. lie saw that she was 
 offended. 
 
 ' Good night, Charles. I will take care not to give myself 
 unnecessary trouble again.' 
 
 ' My dear mother ! ' and he went up to her and kissed her. 
 ' I cannot bear this. It was very silly ; very wrong, only'- 
 
 ' Only ! ' — and Mrs Wentworth gave way for an instant to 
 her hitherto repressed feelings — ' only, Charles, you were 
 tempted, and you yielded.' 
 
 ' It is not such a very great offence,' replied Charles, re- 
 lapsing again into his former tone of indifference. ' It was 
 impossible to get away sooner ; as it was, I was one of the first 
 to go ; and really it was no case of temptation. The party 
 was immensely stupid ; not a single person there whom I cared 
 to meet, except young Johnstone.' 
 
 ' Was he there ? ' exclaimed Mrs Wentworth, eagerly. ' Did 
 he say anything about Eleanor ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; he told me what I knew — that she had been staying 
 
 with his father and mother ; and that she was with She 
 
 was at Senilhurst now.' There was a hesitation in Mr Went- 
 worth's manner, which, however, did not occasion any remark. 
 
 ' I was in hopes Eleanor might have left Senilhurst by this 
 time,' said Mrs Wentworth. ' It is vexatious her being there 
 at all ; but I suppose she could not help it ; and now the stay- 
 ing for this party is not what I like.' 
 
 ' Eleanor is to go back again to the Johnstones,' said Mr 
 Wentworth ; ' and it struck me — I must go to London before 
 long — I might just as well bring her home.' 
 
 ' London ! my dear Charles ! you must go to London before 
 your ordination! What are you thinking of?' 
 
 Whatever Mr Wentworth's thoughts were, that was not a 
 moment for confiding them to his mother ; yet it might have 
 been a relief to him, and he evidently felt so, for his countenance 
 assumed for an instant an expression of openness and confi- 
 dence ; but Mrs Wentworth's tone, as she repeated to herself, 
 ' London ! what a strange notion !' threw him back upon him- 
 self, and he replied shortly, ' 1 have business there.' 
 
 His mother did not press the inquiry beyond the observation, 
 that it was a very sudden and incomprehensible idea, and took 
 
 P
 
 226 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 no notice of the suggestion respecting Eleanor, till it was made 
 a second time. ' She could not tell ; she could not decide/ was 
 all she would say upon the subject. ' Eleanor would probably 
 return almost immediately.' 
 
 ' But I am thinking of going immediately,' persisted Charles ; 
 ' our plans will just suit.' 
 
 ' We must first know what Eleanor's are,' continued his 
 mother. ' She says that she has been induced to remain at 
 Senilhurst to keep Lady Blanche's birthday. She hopes I shall 
 not be angry. Poor child ! she need not be afraid of that ; 
 vexed I might be, but not angry. In this case there seems to 
 have been a train of events almost forcing her to do as she has 
 done. Her visit to Senilhurst at the very first was unforeseen.' 
 
 ' I should be thankful, my dear mother, if you would make 
 the same excuses for your son that you do for your daughter,' 
 said Charles, in a tone of pique. 
 
 Mrs Wentworth softened instantly in manner, though she 
 sighed as she replied, ' If I could see the same reasons for ex- 
 cuse, my dear Charles, you would not be more thankful for it 
 than I should be.' 
 
 ' And are there not the same reasons ? ' exclaimed Mr Went- 
 worth, impetuously. ' Is Eleanor to go where she likes, even 
 to the very place which you profess to dread for her, and must 
 I not even remain for an hour at a dinner party beyond the 
 time fixed ? ' 
 
 The case was too glaring not to strike Mrs Wentworth's sense 
 of justice, and she said instantly, in a tone of apology, ' I was 
 vexed then without cause— at least without sufficient cause. I 
 am sorry for it ; but if you knew, O Charles ! ' and tears started 
 to her eyes ; ' those little things — they indicate so much to my 
 mind. If you cannot keep to engagements and rules in your 
 daily life, how will you ever submit to them in serious matters ? 
 How can you be fitted for the self-denial required of a clergy- 
 man ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps I am not fitted for it,' began Mr Wentworth ; but 
 his mother's distressed look stopped him, and in a milder tone 
 he added, ' When I am talking to you, I always fear that I am 
 not.' 
 
 ' Fear would be your safety,' said Mrs Wentworth. 
 
 ' Then I am safe beyond the possibility of danger,' exclaimed 
 Charles, eagerly. The same expression of openness passed over 
 his features as once before, but again his mother spoke, and the
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 227 
 
 momentary courage vanished. This time, however, she was 
 
 not chilling. 
 
 ' You are safe, I hope and trust,' she replied, very earnestly, 
 ' because your know your faults, and have striven against them ; 
 but for that, your father and I could never consent to your ordi- 
 nation. And if I am hard upon you, Charles, it is only from 
 my love ; my longing to see you what a clergyman ought to be, 
 what your father is.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I know it, my dear mother. I am quite aware of it. 
 I wish you would not apologise.' 
 
 ' I always own when I am wrong,' said Mrs Wentworth. 
 He drew near to wish her a good night, and she looked at him 
 with a mother's proud fondness. ' A few weeks more, and you 
 will be a clergyman. Then the greatest wish of my heart will 
 be granted.' 
 
 ' Always supposing the fitness,' said Charles, almost moodily. 
 He sighed very heavily ; his mother thought for an instant that 
 something was weighing upon his mind, that he had a secret 
 which he wished to tell ; yet he only recurred to the often- 
 repeated question, ' How would she feel if he were to give up 
 the idea ? ' Mrs Wentworth's heart was too full to answer, but 
 her silence was sufficient. She was a person of few interests, 
 few wishes ; but those she had were intense. It would break 
 her heart if he were to disappoint her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THERE are some fortunate individuals — fortunate in the eyes 
 of the world — whose success in all they undertake is pro- 
 verbial. Lady Charlton was one of these. Whether it was 
 from tact and cleverness, or real unselfishness and kindness, 
 she almost universally carried her point. Such persons in- 
 sensibly become despotic. Their irritation when thwarted is 
 naturally in accordance with their certainty of victory. But, 
 happily for Eleanor Wentworth's comfort, there were two con- 
 siderations which neutralised in a degree, in Lady Charlton's 
 mind, the feelings excited by Sir Hugh's announcement that he 
 had insisted upon Miss Wentworth's remaining to keep Lady
 
 2 28 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Blanche's birthday. One was the increase of gaiety in the 
 society at Senilhurst which her presence caused ; and the other 
 was the hope of inducing Mr Johnstone in consequence to come 
 to Senilhurst again, and be the lion of a grave dinner party 
 which was shortly in contemplation. It was a peculiar faculty 
 in Lady Charlton, that of seizing upon the advantageous points 
 of every incident, however apparently untoward. The loss of 
 half her fortune, or the illness of her dearest friend, might have 
 affected her to despair for the moment ; but she would infallibly 
 have extracted satisfaction from them the next minute. Either 
 she would be an object of universal sympathy ; or her friend, if 
 she died, would leave her a valuable legacy ; or — no matter 
 what — there was always something to be gained. Not that 
 this ' something ' mollified the first burst of resentment or 
 annoyance. Lady Charlton was thoroughly cross with Eleanor 
 for half a day, and with Sir Hugh for several days ; but the 
 considerations before-mentioned had the effect of supporting her 
 in the endeavour to hide what was displeasing to her from her 
 guests, and in making her, to all appearance, the same kind- 
 hearted, bright, charming person which she was generally 
 allowed to be. 
 
 As for what took place behind the scenes, in more private 
 domestic intercourse, or in that still greater privacy — the sanc- 
 tuary of the heart, — it was not the business of any of the 
 visitors at Senilhurst to inquire. 
 
 And so the world went on — cheerfully in the morning, busily 
 in the afternoon, and merrily at night ; and Mrs Cuthbert Grey 
 worked worsted-work, and moved gracefully, and spoke softly ; 
 and Miss Grey finished the ' getting up ' of the political 
 pamphlet, and was rewarded by hearing that Lord Erlsmere 
 thought her a very sensible person ; and Miss Caroline Grey 
 laughed at nothing, and exercised her fingers violently on the 
 piano ; and Maude, and Adelaide, and Eleanor, did just what 
 every one else was doing, and Blanche 
 
 ' Why is not Blanche at breakfast ? ' asked Lady Charlton 
 of Maude, when they met one morning about ten days after 
 Eleanor's first arrival. Eleanor was sitting next to Maude : she 
 had an impulse to answer, but she would not, because Lady 
 Charlton had not chosen to address herself to her. 
 
 1 Blanche's throat is uncomfortable this morning, I think.' 
 replied Maude. ' Her maid told me that was the reason she 
 was not getting up ; she had a bad night/
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. \ >.g 
 
 ' Her throat !' repeated Lad)' Charlton. ' I never heard of 
 it. What is the matter ? ' 
 
 1 Soma's will see her to-day,' said Lord Rutherford. ' 1 have 
 sent to him.' 
 
 Lady Charlton looked from one to the other in displeased 
 surprise. 
 
 ' Lady Blanche has not seemed quite well for the last week,' 
 observed Mrs Cuthbcrt Grey. 
 
 ' A cold ; only a cold,' said Lord Rutherford, quickly. ' You 
 know she has often a sore throat,' he added, turning to Lady 
 Charlton. 
 
 Lady Charlton did not know it ; she was not aware that any- 
 thing was amiss ; it made her extremely uncomfortable ; in 
 fact, if she might be excused, it would make her happier to go at 
 once and see how- Blanche really was — and she left the room. 
 
 ' Colds are awkward things,' said Airs Cuthbert Grey to Lord 
 Erlsmere, who was sitting next her ; ' and Lady Blanche looks 
 so delicate.' 
 
 She did not intend Lord Rutherford to hear, but he did hear, 
 and remarked, in answer, in a tone of — what for him was — ■ 
 great irritation, that people who looked delicate were very often 
 not at all so. He was happy to say that Blanche had never 
 known a day's serious illness since her birth. 
 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey smiled with polite incredulity, and hoped 
 it might be very long before the spell of such good health was 
 broken. 
 
 Lord Rutherford did not thank her : he only rang the bell 
 hastily, to inquire whether the man was gone to Cobham with 
 the note to Mr Somers. 
 
 Maude had been sitting silent for some time, seemingly with- 
 out paying any attention to what was passing ; but, upon 
 hearing that Mr Somers' note was not gone — only going, when 
 some John, or Joseph, or Stephen was ready, she turned round 
 quickly, and said, ' Let them take my pony and set off directly ; 
 - — directly,' she repeated, as the servant hesitated, in surprise, 
 apparently, at an unusual order. ' I shall not ride to-day.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Lord Rutherford, from the opposite side 
 of the table. He pushed aside his plate, leaving his breakfast 
 half untouched, and went to the window ; and, after a few 
 minutes' consideration, said, laying his hand upon the bell a 
 second time, ' I shall go myself — these people are so stupid, li 
 Ylt Somers is not at home, the note will be lost.'
 
 230 THE EAR US DAUGHTER. 
 
 The words were spoken to Maude ; she did not try to dis- 
 suade him ; only she observed that it might be as well to wait 
 and hear what her mother thought about Blanche. 
 
 Lord Rutherford sat down again, and conversation continued 
 around him, but there was no life in it. Eleanor asked Maude 
 a few questions about Blanche ; but Maude would not say a 
 word more than was necessary, and even then answered in a 
 short disagreeable way, which was no incentive to pursue the 
 subject. 
 
 Lady Charlton returned, after rather a long absence. Lord 
 Rutherford did not inquire how Blanche was, but she said, of 
 her own accord, that there was not much the matter — a cold, 
 caught from imprudence : all young people's colds originated in 
 the same way. There was no inducing them to guard against 
 the weather. Blanche had got wet about ten days or a fortnight 
 before, and had not taken proper care of herself. 
 
 ' It was the day we met at the lodge,' said Maude : ' she was 
 not well, if you remember, that evening.' 
 
 ' And she has not been looking well since,' again repeated 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey, in a pleasant, cheerful voice, as if she was 
 making the most agreeable remark possible. 
 
 Lord Rutherford said he did not see why people should 
 trouble themselves about the origin of colds. Blanche had one 
 — that was sufficient ; she must get rid of it. Were there any 
 commands for Cobham ; he was going there immediately. 
 
 ' For Mr Somers ? ' inquired Lady Charlton. 
 
 ' Yes, partly ; that is, I shall call just to see if he is at home. 
 It is satisfactory to put things into a medical man's hands at once, 
 if only one's finger aches. It saves one from responsibility.' 
 
 ' And if anything does go seriously amiss afterwards,' re- 
 marked Mrs Cuthbert Grey, ' one is freed from self-reproach.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford rose, and saying he should see Blanche 
 before he set off, left the breakfast-table. 
 
 ' So strange it is ! ' observed Mrs Cuthbert Grey to Lord 
 Erlsmere, lingering for a tete-a-tite, when every one else was 
 gone ; ' so curious ! almost amusing ! to watch people trying 
 to deceive themselves ! Lord Rutherford thinks he is not 
 anxious ; poor man ! ' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere said, ' Poor man ! ' also ; but with a very 
 different feeling from Mrs Cuthbert Grey. 
 
 Blanche appeared at the luncheon-table, looking so like her 
 usual self, so bright, and simple, and happy, that even Mrs
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 231 
 
 Cuthbcrt Grey did not see any cause for pity. Lord Rutherford 
 took real pains to announce Mr Somers' opinion. Lady Blanche 
 was not well, certainly ; she was delicate, and required care ; she 
 had been rather imprudent, and must make up her mind not to 
 be out late, and not to sit up at night ; she must take strength- 
 ening things ; ' in short, she is to be treated as an invalid for 
 the present, to keep her quiet,' he added with a smile, and with 
 this dictum all were satisfied, and all went their own way. 
 
 Blanche went hers ; it was to her own room : she did not 
 feel as others thought she felt ; yet it was not easy to complain, 
 when there was little definite to complain of, beyond a sore 
 throat, which any person might have, and a sense of languor 
 and weakness, which might be more indolence than anything 
 else. She was almost vexed at becoming more comfortable, as 
 she sat writing to Mrs Howard, and began to think herself 
 fanciful. The quietness and solitude were very pleasant, and 
 she wrote and read and worked, till it grew dark, and then, 
 tired with exertion, sat by the cheerful fire thinking till she fell 
 asleep. How long she slept she did not know, but she was 
 awakened suddenly by pain — that sharp indescribable pang 
 which had once before so startled her ; the involuntary cry 
 which she uttered was answered by a kiss from her father. He 
 was bending over her with a face of the fondest anxiety. 
 
 ' My dearest child, you frightened me,' he said ; ' but you 
 are sitting uneasily ; that is the matter, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Yes, I hope so ; I suppose it may be,' said Blanche ; but 
 she was very pale, for the pain continued, though not so 
 intensely. Lord Rutherford laid her on the sofa, and placed 
 the pillows for her to rest ; she smiled cheerfully then, and told 
 him she was better. It was only pain for the moment, which 
 she had felt before, and, no doubt, it would soon be gone. He 
 was not satisfied ; but scarcely choosing to acknowledge his 
 uneasiness to himself, he said, with an endeavour to divert his 
 thoughts, ' I was coming to tell you about my afternoon's 
 business. I have been to the lodge, and inquired after your 
 little friend ; and there I met Lord Erlsmere, returning from a 
 short ride with one of the Miss Greys ; so I persuaded them to 
 join me and go as far as Cobham, where I made Miss Grey 
 choose some books and toys, which are to be sent home for you 
 to see ; and to-morrow we will go and give them.' 
 
 Blanche held out her hand to him, and said, ( Thank you/ 
 very earnestly ; but her voice was faint.
 
 2.32 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 4 Your hand is so hot, my child — quite feverish,' said the earl. 
 ' I wish Somers had sent the medicine he talked of.' 
 
 He was going to ring and inquire, but Blanche would not 
 allow him. It was pleasant, she said, to have him for half an 
 hour to herself, and she could inquire about the medicine after- 
 wards ; for, if he thought it would not look fanciful, she would 
 rather not go down-stairs that evening. 
 
 Lord Rutherford acquiesced ; he sat down by the sofa again, 
 and went on talking to her about the little boy. He seemed to 
 know everything about him — how he had slept, and what he 
 had eaten — and as Blanche, from time to time, smiled, and was 
 pleased and interested, he became quite eager, almost impatient in 
 his wish to show her what he had bought. ' I shall come to you 
 again, after dinner,' he said, when the dressing-bell rung ; ' that 
 is if you are not gone to bed; but you must not sit up late. If 
 you do not nurse your cold now, you will not be fit for your gay 
 birthday.' 
 
 Blanche had no doubt that she should be quite well the next 
 day — her colds were never of much consequence ; and Lord 
 Rutherford agreed with her, and went away happy, as he tried 
 to believe ; but the world was not quite so sunshiny as it had 
 lately been. Perhaps it was that he missed Blanche in the 
 drawing-room and at the dinner-table. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 'QO we are not to have the pleasure of seeing Blanche this 
 v3 evening,' said Sir Hugh to Lord Rutherford, when, after 
 a good deal of exertion and endurance on the part of Pearson, 
 he had been moved from the drawing-room and settled at the 
 dinner-table. ' A great loss, that ! We shall all feel it. But 
 we must hope ; if she will take care of herself now, we may 
 anticipate the gratification of welcoming her in full beauty on 
 her birthday.' 
 
 'That will be, when?' asked Lord Erlsmere. A laugh went 
 round the table. Lord Erlsmere must certainly have been living 
 in the clouds; or, as Maude whispered to her next neighbour, in 
 that which is the nearest approach to them— the House of
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 233 
 
 Commons — not to have learnt that the next Tuesday was to be 
 
 a gala day. 
 
 'Oh!' Lord Erlsmere was guilty of a slight blush — for he 
 undoubtedly had not been paying that full attention to the affairs 
 of this lower earth, or, at least, to the affairs of Scnilhurst, which 
 might have been expected from a person supposed, of course, to 
 be either destined for Lady Blanche, or desperately in love with 
 Miss Grey. ' Wednesday is the day — the day, par excci/oice,' 
 said Sir Hugh, graciously. ' Lord Rutherford has done us great 
 honour in allowing us to keep it here ; and the fact reminds 
 
 ' Sir Hugh,' said Lady Charlton, in a tone which was quite 
 melodious from its gentleness ; ' you are overlooking your 
 neighbour. Miss Caroline Grey has eaten nothing.' Sir Hugh 
 was all attention in an instant. 
 
 'Wednesday, is it?' said Mrs Cuthbert Grey to Lady 
 Charlton, with an air of surprise and disappointment. ' I have 
 made a great mistake, I thought you said Tuesday.' 
 
 'No ; Wednesday, the 29th. I am right, am I not, Maude? 
 Wednesday, the 29th, the grand day,' exclaimed Sir Hugh, 
 returning to the subject with renewed vigour; 'and I was about 
 
 to observe — I was about to remind Lord Rutherford ' The 
 
 earl was seized with a sudden interest in an observation made by 
 Eleanor Wentworth, who was sitting by him. Sir Hugh looked 
 from one to the other, but the tide of conversation had received 
 an impulse which it was not easy to avert. 
 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey's next remark was made in an under-tone 
 to Lady Charlton. She was really vexed, she said, to find that 
 Wednesday was the day, for she was very much afraid that some 
 plans which she had formed would be incompatible with what 
 would otherwise have been a great wish. She had set her heart 
 upon Adelaide's returning with her, and as she must go on the 
 Wednesday, she was afraid this notion of the birthday would 
 interfere. 
 
 ' But Wednesday is the very day : you are not going then ; we 
 could not let you go/ exclaimed Lady Charlton. ' I could not 
 entertain the idea for an instant.' 
 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey professed herself as vexed and disappointed 
 as Lady Charlton could possibly have desired; but again repeated 
 that her plans were so fixed they could not under any circum- 
 stances be altered. It was business, indeed, which required her 
 presence nt home on the Thursday, and business which could not
 
 234 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 be set aside. ' But you will perhaps spare Adelaide to us after 
 the party,' she added. ' The distance is not very great ; and 
 possibly, if Mr Johnstone is coming here again, he might bring 
 her back part of the way ; for you know they are near neigh- 
 bours of ours — only at two miles' distance.' 
 
 Lady Charlton was not inclined to make any such arrange- 
 ment. She was too much provoked at losing the guest whom 
 she especially prized on the precise day of her intended party. 
 Her only comfort arose from perceiving that Mrs Cuthbert 
 Grey was as much annoyed as herself. There was perfect sin- 
 cerity in the regret she expressed at the unfortunate mistake. 
 
 ' Mamma may break her heart; but it is more than I shall 
 do/ said Maude, in a low voice to Eleanor. But Eleanor did 
 not answer; she was looking across the table at Adelaide, who 
 was bending forward and listening, with a strange eagerness of 
 manner, to her mother's decision. 
 
 ' I hope I shall have inclination to plead for me, as far as 
 you are concerned, Adelaide,' said Mrs Cuthbert Grey, smiling 
 at the interest so unconsciously shown. Adelaide started, and 
 coloured crimson, and answered, laughingly, that she had set 
 her heart upon it ; but there was no sign of anxiety given after 
 this, for, during the remainder of the dinner, she kept up a 
 flighty conversation with Miss Caroline Grey, which had the 
 effect of chilling into gravity nearly every other person at the 
 table. 
 
 The dinner was ended, and Eleanor and Maude went to 
 Blanche's room together. Each wished the other absent. They 
 had but one feeling in common — that which centred in Blanche. 
 Maude took up a book, as was her wont, and Eleanor rallied 
 her for being unsociable ; but still she read, or pretended to do 
 so, whilst Eleanor sat by, amusing Blanche with little incidents 
 of the day. She was very quick and clever in description; and 
 Maude was attracted by her against her will, and whilst holding 
 a volume of travels in her hand, could not avoid adding an 
 occasional remark or an explanation. 
 
 ' Come, Maude, resign yourself, and be agreeable,' said 
 Blanche, playfully, as Maude turned towards the light, seemingly 
 determined upon being studious ; ' you really cannot help 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' No one is agreeable who is told to be so,' replied Maude, 
 shortly. ' Besides, you don't want anything when Miss Went- 
 vvorth is with you.'
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 235 
 
 ' Yes, I do ; 1 want you for my own pleasure, and to scold 
 Eleanor for saying a good many things she ought not.' 
 
 'What things ?' asked Eleanor; and Maude put down her 
 book, and gazed steadily on the fire. 
 
 "Lectures are for a Mte-d.-Uie? answered Blanche; 'and, 
 moreover, they are not in my way.' 
 
 ' Thank you for supposing them in mine,' observed Maude ; 
 ' but I am used to it ; it has been my character from a child to 
 be fond of giving them — and I think I am. Miss Wentworth 
 thinks so — she cannot deny it.' 
 
 Eleanor did not attempt to do so ; she only said that she 
 had never had the honour of receiving one. 
 
 ' That may be because she considers you incorrigible,' ob- 
 served Blanche. ' I always deem it rather a favour to be 
 lectured by people I care for; it shows that they have not quite 
 given one up.' 
 
 ' Miss Wentworth is not likely to profit by any lectures of 
 mine,' said Maude. 
 
 Eleanor tried to laugh at what might be supposed the double 
 meaning of this speech; but it was an awkward attempt, for 
 she felt much the coldness, the rudeness indeed, of Maude's 
 manner. 
 
 Blanche looked at her cousin reproachfully. She could 
 make allowance for Maude's defect of temper, and the faults of 
 a neglected education ; but this want of courtesy towards her 
 friend and Lady Charlton's guest, was almost more than even 
 her gentleness could bear. 
 
 ' You have no cause to be angry with me, Blanche,' said 
 Maude, replying to the look. 
 
 ' I only say what I mean ; I am not the person to lecture 
 Miss Wentworth, if she deserves a lecture.' The marked 
 emphasis upon the if was evidently intended to show that, in 
 Maude's opinion, the lecture was deserved. 
 
 Blanche was quite afraid to reply. Eleanor sat very still 
 and very stiff, and Maude returned to her book, having 
 thoroughly succeeded in stopping the conversation, if that w _ as 
 her object. 
 
 A knock at the door, at this instant, was a seasonable relief. 
 ' It must be papa,' said Blanche ; ' he promised he would come 
 to sit with me after dinner. But the knock was repeated, and 
 Adelaide put her head in at the door, and called Eleanor away. 
 There was nervousness and conscious secrecy in Eleanor's
 
 236 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 manner, as she answered, ' Coming, in one moment ; go to 
 your room, and I will follow you.' Adelaide still stood at the 
 door without entering; and, after hoping that Blanche was 
 better, said aloud to Maude, ' The Cuthbert Greys' plans are 
 settled, Maude ; they go back to Oakfield on Wednesday night,, 
 after the party ; hard work it will be, but it is quite settled.' 
 
 'Is it?' said Maude, without raising her eyes; and, before 
 Blanche could ask the meaning of the information, Adelaide 
 beckoned again to Eleanor, and both left the room. 
 
 Then Maude threw aside her book, and standing before 
 Blanche, whilst her eyes flashed with indignation, exclaimed, 
 ' Why did you stop me from saying what I would have said ? 
 Is it good for Miss Wentworth that no one should have the 
 courage to tell her the truth, and make her ashamed of the 
 part she is playing?' Blanche was lying on the sofa, very 
 tired and worried ; she had not strength or inclination to enter 
 upon the subject, and Maude's vehemence chilled her, it seemed 
 so misplaced. ' I thought you had more in you, Blanche,' 
 continued Maude ; ' more courage and energy.' 
 
 Tears were in Blanche's eyes as much from fatigue as vexa- 
 tion. ' I don't know what you are talking about, Maude,' she 
 answered ; ' it is all such a mystery. Perhaps you will leave 
 it till another time, for I don't feel very well to-night.' 
 
 Maude became more gentle, but she did not seem willing to 
 defer what she had to say, and continued, ' It may be very 
 cruel, Blanche, to put you up to the ways of the world. You 
 are walking through it blindfold, happily for you ; happily for 
 all who can do so. But remember you have been warned ; and 
 if you will still allow yourself to be infatuated by Miss Went- 
 worth, the fault is not mine. Yet I should have thought,' she 
 added, ' that anything like manoeuvring would have been foreign 
 to your nature.' 
 
 Blanche was completely roused for the moment. ' Man- 
 oeuvring !' she exclaimed. 'Maude, this is only a repetition 
 of the charge you made against Eleanor before. I thought I 
 had told you that I would not bear to hear it brought forward 
 without proof.' 
 
 ' And you have not seen any proof, then, during the foi tnight 
 you have been together,' said Maude, sarcastically. ' Well : I 
 suppose it is possible — wilful blindness is greater than any other. 
 But, if you have not, I can assure you that I have. Every look 
 and word of Miss Wentworth's convinces me that she has a
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 237 
 
 double meaning in her visit ; that she is manoeuvring for her 
 brother and Adelaide ; and, what is more, that she wishes to 
 draw you into her sehemes. I could not tell you all the facts 
 from which I draw my conclusions. Some things I see, some 
 I hear. It may be all folly now, but it may be serious by and 
 by ; and you, Blanche, true and simple though you are — so 
 true and so simple, that I would give all I am worth to re- 
 semble you — may be led to join with them ; they will reckon 
 upon your good nature.' 
 
 ' If they do,' began Blanche, indignantly— but she stopped, 
 and added, ' no, I will not, I cannot believe it.' 
 
 ' Do believe, do think,' said Maude, persuasively. ' Believe 
 whatever may save you from being like them, from being any- 
 thing but what you are.' 
 
 ' You make me very unhappy,' replied Blanche ; ' I wish I 
 knew your object. Why, if you suspect anything amiss, do 
 you not go to your mother, instead of speaking mysteriously to 
 me ?' 
 
 ' And have you, then, really lived so long with us without 
 understanding us ?' exclaimed Maude. ' Can you be childish 
 enough to suppose that I should go and make vague complaints, 
 and aggravate my mother's temper, in the hope of inducing 
 Adelaide to behave as a woman of sense, instead of an idiot ? 
 My dear Blanche, there is not in the house, at this moment, a 
 single individual — I say it calmly and advisedly ; — no, there is 
 not one, yourself excepted, whom I would trust to act with 
 common prudence as far as Adelaide is concerned. They are 
 all ' 
 
 ' I do not wish to hear what they are,' said Blanche, firmly ; 
 ' and I would rather that you should not make me the excep- 
 tion. It is quite impossible that any one of my age, and with 
 my ignorance of the world — which you know, Maude, you are 
 always reminding me of — should know how to act or advise in 
 such a case.' 
 
 'No,' said Maude, more quietly ; ' it is not impossible. You 
 have influence over Miss Wentworth ; and you have also the 
 one qualification — the basis of all good judgment — you are true 
 and consistent.' 
 
 ' 1 would try to be so,' was Blanche's reply. 
 
 Maude stood in silence for a few instants, her large cold gray 
 eyes riveted upon the lovely features of her young cousin, which 
 now bore the expression of pain, both of body and mind.
 
 238 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 To-morrow,' said Blanche, ' we will talk more of this.' 
 Maude did not notice the words ; a cloud of thought seemed 
 passing over her. ' To-morrow,' repeated Blanche ; and Maude 
 started, like one awakened from a dream. 
 
 ' To-morrow, did you say? Yes, if you will; but, O Blanche! 
 in pity do not let me be deceived in you? The tone in which 
 she spoke was strangely different from the chilling bitterness of 
 her former voice. 
 
 Blanche raised her eyes to her, and asked, ' Why are you 
 afraid for me ? ' 
 
 Maude did not answer the question. She knelt down beside 
 her, and said, ' I have talked too long. Can I help you in any 
 way before you go to bed ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you, no ; I shall not go to bed yet. I could not 
 sleep.' 
 
 ' You will lie here and think ; that will be very bad for you,' 
 said Maude. 
 
 ' How can I help it? to be suspicious and distrustful! to 
 doubt Eleanor ! Maude, you should not put such thoughts 
 into my head.' 
 
 ' It was necessary,' replied Maude. ' But drive them from 
 you, at least to-night. Let me read, and make you think of 
 other things.' She took from the table the same volume of 
 travels which she had been looking at before the conversation 
 began. 
 
 Blanche smiled and thanked her ; but added, ' I had better 
 read to myself.' 
 
 ' Because you are afraid of troubling me ; but I should like 
 it. Shall it be this ?' and she held out the book. Blanche 
 hesitated. ' You would prefer something else, only tell me 
 what.' 
 
 ' I am too tired and too vexed for common reading,' replied 
 Blanche. ' You had better say good night, and ask papa to 
 come to me.' 
 
 Maude turned round almost sharply, and said, ' If I were any 
 one else, you would like me to read the Bible.' 
 
 ' I should like you to read it, very much, I cannot say how 
 much, if I thought you would like it,' said Blanche. 
 
 Maude only replied by putting a Bible into her cousin's hands. 
 Blanche opened it, and pointed to one of the concluding chap- 
 ters of St John's Gospel. It was read without hesitation, and 
 ended without comment, and Maude went away.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 BLANCHE could not sleep, as she had feared would be the 
 case. Even the words of unspeakable comfort, of unut- 
 terable love, that had soothed her when read by Maude, failed 
 to chase the wearying thoughts, which, partly from feverishness, 
 and partly from the evening's conversation, harassed her mind. 
 If she fell asleep, it was only to mingle in confused scenes of 
 distress with Adelaide and Eleanor and her aunt ; or to imagine 
 herself guilty of some unknown offence, or involved with others 
 in some great punishment. She awoke continually, and still 
 the distant sound of voices in the drawing-room below, or the 
 notes of the piano or the harp, reminded her that she was the 
 only person who had as yet retired to rest. There came at last 
 a pause, as the party was breaking up, and Blanche in that 
 interval fell asleep again, and when she again unclosed her eyes, 
 it seemed as if she had slept a long time. She sat up to look 
 at her watch. It was just eleven. She had not then slept so 
 very long, and on listening, she could still hear a few move- 
 ments in the house, and murmuring voices near ; yes, very 
 near, in the gallery by her dressing-room, the door into which 
 was partly open. They were very low, and Blanche could not 
 at first distinguish them ; but after the lapse of a few minutes, 
 a push, it seemed an angry one, was given to the dressing- 
 room door, and Adelaide and Eleanor, both speaking together, 
 entered. Blanche was startled for an instant, and then, sup- 
 posing they were wishing to see if she was asleep, laid her head 
 again on her pillow, expecting them to come into the bedroom ; 
 but there was a delay. 
 
 ' Remember, Adelaide,' she heard Eleanor say eagerly, ' you 
 may carry your amusement a little too far. Mrs Cuthbert Grey 
 will never countenance any folly.' 
 
 Adelaide laughed lightly, and replied, ' We shall not do her 
 the honour of asking for her countenance ; besides, if you are 
 afraid, you know the alternative.' Silence followed for some 
 seconds, when it was again broken by Adelaide. ' You need 
 not trouble yourself to-night,' she said. ' Talk to her to- 
 morrow quietly, and bring her round ; and I have given my 
 word of honour, so has Charles. Your difficulty will be at an 
 end.' 
 
 < Will it ? ' asked Eleanor, thoughtfully.
 
 240 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Yes ; do you doubt us ? ' 
 
 ' Charles is so rash ; so fearfully rash,' said Eleanor. ' He will 
 not hear of delay.' 
 
 By this time Blanche had become aware that what was said 
 was not intended for her ears. She coughed to give the idea 
 that she was awake, and repeated Eleanor's name ; but, in the 
 eagerness of conversation, she was not heard, and she could 
 not help catching Adelaide's reply, ' We are both sick of delay ; 
 and if you will not do anything for us, you must expect us to 
 do something for ourselves.' 
 
 There was a movement as if Adelaide was going. It seemed 
 that Eleanor detained her, for in a voice of anxious entreaty 
 she said, ' Adelaide, have you no pity for my mother ? If you 
 encourage him to any rash step, it will kill her ; it will be sad 
 enough as it is,' she added, in a lower tone. 
 
 Adelaide only burst from her, closed the dressing-room door 
 hastily, and Eleanor was left alone. 
 
 All was very still then : Blanche could hear the beating of her 
 own heart as she waited for Eleanor's coming. She couid have 
 thought that nearly a quarter of an hour had gone by before 
 there was the very gentle tap and the stealthy footstep, as of 
 one who was afraid of intruding ; — so many thoughts and such 
 painful misgivings were crowded into a few moments. What 
 could be the meaning of all she had heard ? Why did Eleanor 
 come to her at all ? Was it only kindness, or had she some 
 secret, something to ask or to tell ? and could it really be wrong, 
 could there really be a foundation for Maude's warnings ? could 
 Eleanor, — but she had no more time for such questionings, 
 Eleanor stood by her bedside, shading the candle which she 
 held in her hand, so that the light scarcely fell upon her feat- 
 ures, whilst she asked, hurriedly, whether Blanche had been 
 asleep, and if she was feeling at all better. The inquiries were 
 made as a matter of course, and Blanche answered them in the 
 same indifferent manner. She could think of nothing but of 
 what might be still to come. 
 
 ' Then I can do nothing for you, dear,' said Eleanor, stoop- 
 ing down to kiss Blanche. The light fell upon her face as she 
 raised herself : Blanche had never seen her look so wretched. 
 She kept her hand, longing to speak, but not knowing how to 
 begin. 
 
 ' Good night,' said Eleanor, trying to withdraw herself. 
 
 ' Good night,' repeated Blanche. A pang of conscience fob
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 241 
 
 lowed the words, as if she was deceiving Eleanor, and she 
 added, ' Must you go ? ' 
 
 ' I think I must. Do you know how late it is ? ' 
 
 ' After eleven ; but can't you stay a few minutes ? ' Eleanor 
 sat down. 
 
 ' It seems selfish, too,' continued Blanche, affectionate!)'. 
 ' You look very fagged. Had you a pleasant evening ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, very : ' but Eleanor could not bring herself to give any 
 particulars of it. 
 
 ' Is Adelaide going to Mrs Cuthbert Grey's?' began Blanche, 
 hoping to bring round the conversation by degrees : but con- 
 trivance was so opposite to her character, that in the pause 
 which preceded the reply, she exclaimed : ' Eleanor, I must tell 
 you one thing ; I could not sleep or be happy if I did not. I 
 heard what you and Adelaide said ; I could not help it.' She 
 expected a burst of indignation ; but the stillness of the hour 
 was broken only by a stifled sob, as Eleanor leant her head 
 upon Blanche's pillow and cried bitterly. 
 
 ' I did not understand it ; and I do not wish to know any- 
 thing, dearest,' said Blanche, fondly. ' Only forgive me. I 
 know it could not be wrong — just say that it is nothing wrong,' 
 she added, in her simplicity betraying the doubt which pained 
 her. Eleanor put aside the arm which was thrown round her, 
 and apparently ashamed of her weakness, and wishing to hide 
 it, said, as she sat upright, ' What did you hear, Blanche ? — 
 and how did you hear it ? ' 
 
 Blanche repeated, as well as she could recollect, the sub- 
 stance of what had passed, saying again, as she concluded, 
 ' Don't explain ; I would rather you should not.' 
 
 Eleanor's lips became white with agitation. She looked 
 steadily at Blanche for an instant, and then answered, ' Blanche, 
 you will trust me, I am sure. I have trusted you from child- 
 hood. Grant me what I ask.' 
 
 ' If I can, — tell me only what I am to do/ said Blanche, 
 frightened by her manner. 
 
 ' But, before I tell — now — promise me.' 
 
 Blanche drew back. ' Before ? it is impossible.' 
 
 ' Not to me in whom you have so much confidence ! ' ex- 
 claimed Eleanor, reproachfully. 
 
 Blanche could scarcely bear to realise her own doubt, and she 
 continued, ' It is wrong to promise anything in ignorance ; 
 therefore I cannot.'
 
 242 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' But ignorance may be your good/ said Eleanor ; ' it may 
 save you from pain.' 
 
 Blanche looked at her with sadness and surprise ; then she 
 answered, almost coldly, ' A year ago you would not have asked 
 this. You know I cannot consent.' It was a tone and manner 
 which it was impossible to mistake, for it spoke a fixed decision : 
 and Eleanor had long since learned that Blanche, gentle and 
 yielding though she appeared, possessed much of the resolute 
 spirit of her family. 
 
 ' Then, if you will not,' she exclaimed, ' we will leave the 
 subject for to-night. You can hear more another time, if you 
 wish it.' 
 
 ' No,' said Blanche, eagerly, yet very seriously, ' we will 
 not wait ; you have led me so far that you are bound to be 
 candid.' 
 
 ' It is a small request,' answered Eleanor, in a musing tone. 
 ' It will not injure you or inconvenience you ; and you will do 
 more good by it than you know or think.' 
 
 < Only let me know it,' repeated Blanche. ' If there is no- 
 thing wrong, there can be no cause for hesitation.' 
 
 ' You are suspicious,' exclaimed Eleanor. ' Blanche, I would 
 not suspect you.' 
 
 Blanche was silent. 
 
 ' Maude Charlton has made you so,' continued Eleanor ; ' she 
 hates me. If it had not been for you, Blanche, I would not 
 have borne her behaviour ; and now, to find that even you 
 have turned against me ! ' 
 
 Blanche would not attempt to vindicate herself — she only 
 said, in a faint voice, ' I should like to know what I am to do.' 
 
 ' I would not ask a favour for myself,' began Eleanor, 
 proudly ; ' but it is for Charles and for my mother. O 
 Blanche ! ' and her angry tone changed into one of the most 
 earnest entreaty, ' forgive me for being so hasty ; I am very 
 wretched.' 
 
 Blanche drew her affectionately towards her, and said, ' What 
 am I to grant ? — all I have is yours.' 
 
 ' It is but to ask for — to persuade Lord Rutherford ; he has 
 in his gift ' — she paused, hoping that Blanche would con- 
 clude the sentence ; but no help was given her, and at length, 
 slowly and with shame came the words — ' the living of Whit- 
 field is vacant ; if it might be for Charles — promised him, kept 
 for him, I mean ' — she added. 'Such things are done.' Blanche
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 243 
 
 did not speak. ' It is a very little thing,' repeated Eleanor : 'I 
 wonder I was so shy of asking;' and she laughed that cold empty 
 laugh which betrays an aching heart. 
 
 Blanche was strangely silent and still. 
 
 Eleanor was frightened. ' It is but a trifle after all,' she 
 repeated again : ' so you will say Yes, dearest ; and I will go.' 
 
 But Blanche caught her dress as she was about to take up 
 her candle, and said, in a very quiet, low voice, ' Don't ask it 
 again.' 
 
 Eleanor did not catch the full meaning of the words, and 
 replied, ' Yes, you are right ; we can't talk of it now ; it is so 
 late. I would not have told you if you had not insisted 
 upon it.' 
 
 ' But, Eleanor, Eleanor, listen ;' and Blanche kept her hand, 
 and grasped it tightly, ' I cannot ; — that was what I meant ; 
 — I cannot.' 
 
 Eleanor put down the candle and sat down on a chair, with 
 a face of blank dismay. 
 
 ' I can scarcely ask you to understand/ said Blanche, her 
 courage returning with the effort she had made ; ' but it is such 
 great, great pain to refuse.' 
 
 Eleanor covered her face with her hands, and seemed buried 
 in thought. When she looked up she was very pale and agi- 
 tated, but not as Blanche had feared ; there was no anger. 
 
 ' I think, perhaps, you will know why I cannot,' said Blanche, 
 gently, ' when you consider more. I do not know your brother 
 well ; he has not been tried ; he may not be fitted for it ; and 
 the responsibility would be so great, if I were to do as you de- 
 sire. Is there nothing else I can do ?' 
 
 ' Nothing ; but to forget the request was ever made.' 
 
 The tone in which this was said was despairing, and a 
 sudden perception of the truth crossed Blanche's mind. 
 ' Eleanor,' she exclaimed, ' you are asking this for Adelaide 
 Charlton.' 
 
 ' I am asking it for myself,' replied Eleanor, in the same cold 
 tone of wretchedness, ' and for my mother, and my father — for 
 all our happiness ; and you refuse it. Good night.' 
 
 ' O Eleanor ! how cruel !' exclaimed Blanche ; ' but you do 
 not mean it.' 
 
 ' I mean that my happiness and my mother's are in your 
 hands,' said Eleanor. ' Good night.' 
 
 Blanche could bear this no longer. ' In pity, Eleanor!' she
 
 244 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 said, ' do not keep me in mystery. Why are you so miserable ? 
 How is it that so much is involved in this one request ?' 
 
 ' Will you know ?' asked Eleanor, her eyes lighted up with a 
 gleam of hope. 
 
 ' Know? yes, anything ; if I can only comfort and help you.' 
 
 Eleanor paused. 
 
 Blanche waited, tremblingly, for her reply. She did not 
 see — for it was not a time of reasoning — that her refusal was 
 founded upon grounds which nothing ought to shake. 
 
 ' We may trust you,' continued Eleanor, speaking more to 
 herself than to Blanche ; ' you could not betray us. Yes. I am 
 sure we may trust you.' She paused again, and then added, 
 ' Should you be very much surprised — would it seem very strange 
 if — if you were to hear that Adelaide and Charles were engaged?' 
 
 ' Engaged !— actually engaged ! ' was all that Blanche could 
 say; and there was more surprise, and even displeasure, in hei 
 tone than Eleanor was prepared for. 
 
 ' You shall hear about it,' said Eleanor. ' I was afraid you 
 would be vexed ; yet I could not tell you before.' 
 
 ' I am not thinking of myself,' replied Blanche, quickly ; 
 ' but quite engaged ! who allows it ? ' 
 
 ' They allow it themselves,' answered Eleanor, with a faint 
 effort at a smile. ' But, Blanche, dearest, I will tell you as 
 shortly as I can, and then,' — she did not dare to utter her 
 hopes, but Blanche understood them — ' it was soon after you 
 left Rutherford they wrote to each other,' began Eleanor, ' that 
 is — not themselves at first' — she waited for a moment, and then 
 continued, passionately, ' I must say it all out plainly ; it is my 
 doing — my folly. Oh ! how bitterly I have repented it. I let 
 them send messages in my letters ; I don't know why ; it was 
 mere idle nonsense. I never thought for an instant that any- 
 thing serious would follow ; and Charles did not give me the 
 least notion of what he was going to do ; but he proposed 
 quite suddenly — a sort of impulse, he told me afterwards, seized 
 him. He proposed, and she accepted him, and they were en- 
 
 gaged. 
 
 Blanche looked at her quietly and simply, and asked, ' And 
 what did your mother say ?' 
 
 ' My dear, dear Blanche ! what are you thinking of? Of all 
 persons on the face of the earth, Charles dreads my mother. 
 He would have borne torture rather than acknowledge the fact 
 to her.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 245 
 
 1 But she must know it,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' Yes, in time ; when she is prepared. But you can scarcely 
 understand what her character is like — so strong, so stern, and 
 devoted ; so rigidly bent upon duty, and yet so excitable, and 
 her one object in life her children — Charles especially ; that is 
 her object of anxiety ; she has less fear for me/ and Eleanor 
 sighed deeply. 
 
 i She would not like the marriage, I can ' believe,' said 
 Blanche. 
 
 * No; she is very much prejudiced; she has a dislike to 
 Adelaide ; and, independently of that, she has a horror of any . 
 thing which would interfere with Charles' duties ; which would 
 make him less earnest just as he is going to be ordained ; and 
 she would feel — it would half kill her, I believe, if he were to 
 do anything rash now.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Blanche, thoughtfully ; ' a marriage with a 
 person like Adelaide at such a moment would be very sad.' 
 
 ' Quite dreadful, in mamma's eyes,' exclaimed Eleanor ; 
 1 and that is what I am bent upon preventing.' 
 
 Blanche looked at her for a further explanation. 
 
 ' You will scarcely see what I am aiming at, at first,' pursued 
 Eleanor ; ' but there is one hope, and only one. Both Adelaide 
 and Charles are wild, I believe ; they think they can live upon 
 nothing. Charles might, by the interest of an uncle, get into 
 the army ; but neither he nor Adelaide will now let me fully 
 into their plans. Adelaide dreads the thing being known, and 
 says her mother will never hear of her marrying a country 
 curate, and she encourages Charles in the notion of the army.' 
 
 1 It is very strange to me,' said Blanche, ' that a person 
 like Adelaide should ever have engaged herself to a country 
 curate.' 
 
 < She is so thoughtless,' replied Eleanor ; ' I really suspect 
 she scarcely knows what a country curate means ; only that it 
 is something Lady Charlton would not like ; and then, to do 
 her justice, she is not mercenary, and, I believe, cares for 
 Charles as much — as much as she can care for any one. You 
 will understand, Blanche, what a very awkward state of affairs 
 this is.' 
 
 ' Very,' replied Blanche ; in her heart thinking it so awk- 
 ward that she heartily repented having been made acquainted 
 with it. 
 
 ' Now,' continued Eleanor, < I know Charles well enough to
 
 246 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 be quite sure he will not go on in this way long. He might 
 persuade Adelaide to a private marriage, even : I would not 
 trust him.' 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed Blanche ; ' you must be unjust to him. 
 It would be such a bitter grief to his mother.' 
 
 ' It would be worse than that,' said Eleanor, very gravely ; 
 ' it would nearly kill her just now, on the very eve of his ordi- 
 nation : she, who has such strict notions on all these subjects, 
 to be so disappointed in him. Blanche, it would be very, very 
 dreadful for her to bear.' There was a silence for several 
 moments, and at last Eleanor raised her eyes timidly to 
 Blanche's face, and said, ' You can prevent it.' There was no 
 need for Blanche to seek for an explanation ; Eleanor had 
 reached the point she had been aiming at, and in a hurried 
 voice added, ' If Charles had any prospects in the Church ; if 
 he had the promise of such a living as Whitfield, for instance ; 
 his circumstances would be so altered that he would not be 
 ashamed to come forward openly, and Adelaide would not be 
 afraid, not so much afraid at least, to acknowledge their en- 
 gagement. Sir Hugh would take her part, if Lady Charlton 
 did not.' 
 
 ' And your mother and Dr Wentworth ? ' asked Blanche. 
 
 ' They would be very grieved ; they would think it infatua- 
 tion ; but, if there was nothing clandestine or underhand, they 
 would be more inclined to excuse it.' 
 
 ' But at such a time, just before his ordination,' persisted 
 Blanche. 
 
 ' They would not know it was thought of now/ replied 
 Eleanor. ' If Charles had any certainty before him, he would 
 wait. Christmas is near ; he would delay mentioning the 
 subject until he was ordained, and then he would prepare them 
 for it by degrees. It is only this lingering uncertainty which 
 frets him and drives him to desperation. And one thing, 
 Blanche — if things go on as they are, I am convinced that lie 
 will never take orders. Adelaide's influence will lead him in a 
 contrary direction ; and, if the engagement were to be known, 
 both my father and mother would dissuade him from it, at least 
 for the present — they would say his mind was not in a fit state, 
 and he might go into the army ; into a merchant's office — into 
 — I don't know what he would do ; but mamma would be 
 niserable for life.' 
 
 ' But, Eleanor, Eleanor,' exclaimed Blanche, and she sat up
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 247 
 
 and looked at her friend as if distrusting the evidence of her 
 reason as to the meaning of what she had heard ; ' surely, if your 
 father and mother would not consider him fit, he is not so ; he 
 cannot be so in the eye of God ; and to induce him to take such 
 awful vows ! — to encourage him in any way to such self-decep- 
 tion ! — indeed, you do not see what you are doing.' 
 
 ' I was prepared for this,' said Eleanor, calmly ; ( remember 
 you are judging Charles without knowing him. You say he 
 cannot be fit for holy orders now, because his heart is set upon 
 this unhappy engagement. But 1 know him a great deal belter 
 than you do. Let him once feel himself bound, and I venture 
 to say there is not a clergyman in England who will do his 
 duty more conscientiously. And consider, after all, there is no 
 great sin in what he is about. He is in love ; you and I think 
 it very strange he should be ; but then, you know, we cannot 
 understand half the marriages that take place — we wonder at 
 them constantly. I do not think we either of us are able to 
 make excuses for him, such as persons would do who were more 
 used to such nonsense.' 
 
 ' But Eleanor,' said Blanche, earnestly, ' I don't think being 
 in love, as it is called, is nonsense. It involves all the happiness 
 of a person's life ; and if people do not act rightly when they 
 are in love, I cannot see how they are to expect a blessing when 
 they are married.' 
 
 ' There is no harm in being in love, that is all I am contend- 
 ing for,' said Eleanor. ' It does not follow that Charles is not 
 to make a very good clergyman, because, unfortunately, he has 
 lost his heart to Adelaide Charlton.' 
 
 ' O Eleanor ! ' exclaimed Blanche, reproachfully, ' you are 
 trying to argue with me as you used to do at St Ebbe's. You 
 are keeping to the letter of my words, and missing the spirit.' 
 She turned away her head, as if to put an end to the subject ; 
 but Eleanor would not be thus silenced. 
 
 ' Listen to me once more, dearest Blanche,' she said, in an 
 altered voice, ' I will not argue in the way you dislike. I will 
 grant all you say, if you wish it ; but my mother was your 
 mother's best friend — the only friend who helped her in her hour 
 of need. For the sake of my mother, and in remembrance of 
 your mother, grant what I have asxed.' Blanche looked round 
 with an expression of such intense suffering in her countenance, 
 that Eleanor could almost have wished the allusion withheld. 
 Yet she pursued her advantage selfishly, mercilessly ; she thought
 
 24S THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 that she was seeking the happiness of others. ' It is no ex- 
 aggeration,' she said ; ' mamma is no common person : she has 
 for years dwelt upon the hope of seeing Charles a clergyman, 
 and she has had no other great interests to distract her from it. 
 Her anxiety for him, during the last two years, has weakened 
 her health, and I would not answer for the consequences of a 
 disappointment. If you persist in your refusal, I have no expec- 
 tation whatever that Charles will ever take orders ; he will be 
 driven to some desperate step which will bring misery upon us 
 all ; on the other hand, give him a certain hope, and he will be 
 patient and good, and bend his thoughts to his duties ; and 
 after he is ordained, and quietly settled down as a clergyman, 
 he will break the matter to papa and mamma ; and though 
 there might be a good deal of fuss and difficulty at first, all will 
 be well in the end. O Blanche ! surely you cannot refuse 
 now.' Blanche was silent. ' You shall think of it,' persisted 
 Eleanor. ' I have kept you awake a great deal too long to- 
 night ; but to-morrow morning you shall tell me that you will 
 agree. It is the first great favour, the first real favour, I ever 
 asked of you.' Blanche returned the kiss, which accompanied 
 these words, warmly ; but her face was burning with fever and 
 agitation, and her cheeks were wet with tears. For the moment 
 Eleanor reproached herself ; yet even then her eagerness got 
 the better of her real affection, and as she wished Blanche good- 
 night, she added, ' Remember, my mother's happiness rests 
 upon your decision.' 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 ( A ND now, my dear Lady Charlton, you really will let me 
 A persuade you,' said Mrs Cuthbert Grey, the next morn- 
 ing, as she sat at the writing-table, sealing letters for the post, 
 and professing that her necessary correspondence was the very 
 torment of her life ; ' you really will let me carry off Adelaide. 
 I quite see all your objections ; the awkward time, just after 
 your party, and the long night drive, and the discomforts ; but 
 you know I will take uncommon care of her, just the same as 1 
 would of my own child.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 249 
 
 ' There was no doubt of that,' Lady Charlton said, though 
 not very cordially. 
 
 ' Then what are the obstacles ? if I could only know them 
 and obviate them, I should be so glad.' 
 
 ' I am not sure that I could say why I object,' replied Lady 
 Charlton, assuming an air of frankness ; ' it is a question of 
 feeling more than of principle. Adelaide is so unfortunately 
 thoughtless.' 
 
 ' Yes — young, girlish — you could not be afraid of her with 
 
 ' Of course not ; you must not think so : but I am always 
 more happy when Adelaide is under my own eye. A mother's 
 anxiety, you know ! ' and Lady Charlton sighed. 
 
 ' Certainly ; no one can enter into that more than I do,' re- 
 plied Mrs Cuthbert Grey ; ' left with two dear girls — not a 
 person to look to — no Sir Hugh to manage for one ; at times 
 the burden is indescribable. Agnes, love,' and she turned to 
 her eldest daughter, who was working at the other end of the 
 room, ' I think you had better be dressed for your ride before 
 luncheon. The days close in so fast now, you will have no time 
 if you don't set off directly afterwards.' 
 
 Miss Grey expressed a doubt whether some change had not 
 taken place in the general plans since breakfast. Lord Ruther- 
 ford, she thought, was to have gone with them, but Maude had 
 told her he had changed his mind; so perhaps there would be 
 no riding that day. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, my love, put on your habit ; I won't hear of you 
 staying at home, if there is a possibility of going out. So deli- 
 cate as she is,' continued Mrs Cuthbert Grey, addressing Lady 
 Charlton, ' it would be quite wrong to miss such a day as this ; 
 and some one will be certain to take pity on her. But why was 
 the party broken up, my dear ; do you know ? ' 
 
 Miss Grey did not know, but she believed it was Lord Ruther- 
 ford's doing. He had come into the room about an hour before, 
 looking very uncomfortable ; and, after that, she had heard from 
 Maude that he was not going. 
 
 ' He is anxious,' said Mrs Cuthbert Grey, carelessly. 
 
 ' Lady Blanche ought to be better this morning,' observed 
 Miss Grey. ' She is down-stairs, and has been sitting with Lord 
 Rutherford.' 
 
 ' Yes, for nearly an hour/ observed Lady Charlton, in a par- 
 ticularly grave voice.
 
 250 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey instantly changed her tone, and inquired 
 whether Lady Charlton thought there was any cause for anxiety. 
 
 ' Not exactly/ was the reply. Mr Somers had assured them 
 there was not anything seriously amiss, only care was required. 
 And naturally enough, with an only child, even a slight indis- 
 position was a subject of uneasiness. 
 
 ' Lady Blanche is going out, I rather think,' said Miss Grey, 
 ' and Lord Rutherford is to drive her.' 
 
 ' Going out ! — impossible ! ' exclaimed Lady Charlton. ' My 
 dear Miss Grey, why did you not tell me before ? I must in- 
 stantly prevent it.' She hurried from the room as Miss Grey 
 said, in an under-tone, ' Prevent it, if possible ; but that is not 
 quite the order of the day.' 
 
 ' Then what is it ? — What is the matter, Agnes, my love ? Is 
 Lady Blanche seriously worse ? ' inquired Mrs Cuthbert Grey, 
 with some curiosity. 
 
 1 Not that I know of/ replied Miss Grey; 'at least, Maude told 
 me she was not ; but I caught a glimpse of her for a moment, and 
 she looks ten degrees at least worse than yesterday/ 
 
 ' And they, are uneasy, then/ continued her mother. ' Well, 
 that is not to be wondered at ; though really, if I were Lord 
 Rutherford, I could be happier to see her dying of consumption, 
 than to know that she was to live to be what her mother was.' 
 
 ' Lady Rutherford ! there was nothing the matter with her, 
 mamma, more than ordinary illness, was there ?' inquired Miss 
 Grey, quickly. 
 
 ' Only that she was out of her mind/ replied Mrs Cuthbert 
 Grey ; ' and that there is every probability that this poor child, 
 if she lives, will be the same.' 
 
 Miss Grey looked very much shocked. She had never heard 
 the fact before. 
 
 ' It is not generally known/ continued Mrs Cuthbert Grey ; 
 ' the family tried to keep it as quiet as possible ; but things will 
 get abroad through servants ; and there is no doubt poor Lady 
 Rutherford was quite insane — a kind of melancholy madness, 
 which took a religious turn.' 
 
 ' Lady Blanche is very religious/ observed Miss Grey. 
 
 ' Yes ; and it is that which would make me so uneasy. Lord 
 Rutherford is not satisfied himself, I am sure ; he watches her 
 unceasingly ; I have observed him particularly the last few 
 days.' 
 
 ' Lady Blanche looked melancholy enough this morning,' ob-
 
 THE KARL'S DAUGHTER. 251 
 
 served Miss Grey; 'she was coming down the stairs, wrapt up 
 in a shawl, and I thought her the picture of misery ; and just 
 at that moment Miss Wentworth met her, and she seemed so 
 hurried and fluttered, I really pitied her.' 
 
 ' I should not like it,' said Mrs Cuthbert Grey, shaking her 
 head. ' Those peculiar notions of hers are just the things to 
 turn her brain. I don't mean that there is any likelihood of 
 such a calamity at the present time, poor child ! It would be 
 dreadful if there were ; but if she were to fall into ill health, and 
 these morbid fancies were to increase, I should not be in the 
 least surprised : it was precisely the case with her mother. 
 People said Lord Rutherford did not treat her well ; but he had 
 a great deal to bear, I suspect. I hope it won't be the same 
 thing over again now.' 
 
 ' Every one is out of sorts this morning,' observed Miss Grey ; 
 ' Maude Charlton is shorter and sharper than ever. Really, if 
 it were not for her splendid voice, no one would bear with her ; 
 and Adelaide is in such a strange mood, I can't in the least 
 make her out. One minute she laughs and talks as if she was 
 in the highest spirits, and then she seems quite abstracted.' 
 
 < Whimsical, my dear, whimsical,' said Mrs Cuthbert Grey, 
 oracularly. ' Adelaide likes being odd ; but we will carry her 
 away with us, and we shall soon bring back her spirits.' 
 
 ' If she will go,' observed Miss Grey. 'She seemed doubtful 
 at first, when I spoke about it this morning ; but there will be 
 an attraction for her in the neighbourhood. Miss Wentworth 
 and her brother will be at Mr Johnstone's.' 
 
 ' Her brother ! ' repeated Mrs Cuthbert Grey : ' I never 
 heard of him.' 
 
 ' O mamma ! ' and Miss Grey laughed. ' I thought every 
 one knew about Adelaide's flirtation with Mr Wentworth.' 
 
 ' I think I have heard something,' was the reply ; ' but you 
 know, my clear Agnes, if one is to be always au fail upon the 
 subject of Adelaide's follies, one must make it the labour of life. 
 A great pity it is such a nice girl as she is, in many ways, 
 should have been so carelessly brought up. I must not keep 
 you, however, my love. Put on your riding-habit, and you will 
 be sure to find some one to accompany you. And remember, 
 dear, if it should chance to be Lord Erlsmere, and you should 
 be talking of Lady Blanche, you must not speak quite as plainly 
 as I did just now about the unfortunate malady. It does not 
 do to give more than a hint upon such topics, especially where
 
 252 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 it is possible the subject may be a tender one ; though, for his 
 own sake, one could wish that he knew the facts well. Now 
 go and dress as quickly as you can.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 MISS GREY'S observation, that every one was out of sorts 
 that morning, was quite correct. A much stronger ex- 
 pression, indeed, might have been used to describe what seemed 
 the prevailing spirit of indefinable gloom and uneasiness. 
 With one, the most innocent and guileless of all, it was a 
 melancholy which could not be concealed or cast off ; and 
 there were those about her who, from different causes, were so 
 influenced by her as to feel their own spirits rise or fall with 
 hers. Lord Rutherford did not believe, with Mrs Cuthbert 
 Grey, that his child's religious notions were in themselves likely 
 to injure her mind. He had already seen too much of their sooth- 
 ing and strengthening effect to indulge such fears. Perhaps, if 
 he had been asked, he might even have allowed that they were 
 the ballast to a disposition naturally too excitable ; but the one 
 dread which — though he shrank from owning it to himself — 
 was never entirely absent from his thoughts, made him look 
 with suspicious anxiety upon every indication of depression or 
 inequality of spirits, as being the possible precursor of that 
 morbid sadness which had caused so much of the misery of her 
 mother's life. Of physical illness he thought far less. Blanche 
 was delicate ; but not, he imagined, more so than many who 
 seemed likely to live to old age. He had never permitted him- 
 self to deem it possible that she could be taken from him ; it 
 was an idea so dreadful, that if for a moment it crossed his 
 mind, he discarded it as weak, self-tormenting. Blanche was 
 his one treasure — that for which alone life could be endured — 
 and it could not be — so he had at times said to himself — it 
 could not be that she should be removed, and he be left deso- 
 late. Why it could not be, he never inquired — why he was to 
 be saved from a trial to which thousands before him had been 
 subjected, or what he had done to deserve such an exemption. 
 Suffering had for years been present to him only in remem- 
 brance ; and he could not yet believe, that, except under one
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 OJ 
 
 form, it might again be inflicted in the mercy or the wrath of 
 God. 
 
 Yet something did come before him that morning, as he sat 
 alone with Blanche in the study within the library, where his 
 mornings were usually spent — a shadow, though faint and dis- 
 tant, of coming evil. 
 
 Blanche had dressed earlier than he expected ; and he 
 thought, when he saw her in her room, she must be better — at 
 least, she did not complain ; and when he begged her to come 
 down-stairs, and stay with him quietly, instead of remaining by 
 herself, she had consented readily. There seemed less to cause 
 uneasiness than even on the preceding day, as regarded her 
 health ; but there was a change in her manner which he could 
 not help noticing. She was so very quiet, so wrapt up in her 
 own thoughts ; and any attention to what he said was evidently 
 such an effort. He hinted several times his fear that she was 
 fretted, anxious, uncomfortable ; but there was always the same 
 sweet smile and bright glance of gratitude and love in answer, 
 and for the moment he was satisfied that it was mere fancy ; 
 yet a little more observation brought back suspicion. Some- 
 thing was weighing upon her mind causing melancholy and 
 reserve ; and the supposition which would have crossed the 
 mind of another as a natural annoyance, gave a pang sharp as 
 a dagger's thrust to the sensitive spirit of Lord Rutherford. 
 
 And it was no fancy : Blanche was unhappy — -more unhappy 
 than she had ever been before from any but external causes. 
 Eleanor's last words — ' My mother's happiness rests upon your 
 decision ' — were the first which occurred to her remembrance 
 when she awoke after a restless and unrefreshing sleep. The 
 thoughts that accompanied them — harassing and confusing — - 
 made her long to lay her head again upon her pillow, and for- 
 get. Pain and disappointment came, with the recollection of 
 Eleanor's conduct — shame, at the consciousness of having been 
 made privy to a secret in which there was so much to disap- 
 prove ; and, above all, a distracting doubt when the question 
 arose as to her own determination. For there was much to be 
 said — she could not help acknowledging it when she tried to 
 think upon the subject dispassionately— there was much to be 
 alleged, at least, in excuse for Eleanor's wishes. To prevent a 
 great evil — to save her brother from a rash step, which he might 
 regret for life — and to spare Mrs Wentworth a trial, the effects 
 of which no one could foresee — were reasons quite sufficient to
 
 254 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 account fur the earnestness with which. Eleanor pursued a re- 
 quest that, under other circumstances, she would herself have 
 been one of the first to condemn. No one had in general 
 higher views than Eleanor of the awfulness and importance of 
 a clergyman's duty, or of the lasting evil which arises from any 
 carelessness in the bestowal of Church patronage. Blanche 
 had heard her speak almost uncharitably of an instance of in- 
 difference upon this point which had come under their own 
 notice. She had herself taken in a degree the part of the ac- 
 cused, and suggested extenuations which Eleanor could not be 
 induced to accept. 
 
 It might, therefore, naturally be supposed, that in the present 
 instance, Eleanor saw reason sufficient to satisfy her that she 
 was not doing wrong in supporting her brother's wishes. Blanche, 
 indeed, did not comprehend them. Mr Wentworth to her ap- 
 peared very unfitted to take orders. He gave her the idea of a 
 vain, unsteady, though clever and agreeable, person. But 
 Eleanor said he was much better than he appeared ; and who 
 could be so good a judge as a sister ? Then, again, she was 
 not called upon to decide the question of fitness. Dr Went- 
 worth — a very excellent, sensible person — did not object to his 
 son's being a clergyman. Mrs Wentworth, of whose goodness 
 there could be no possible doubt, encouraged the notion. Why 
 was Blanche to put her judgment against theirs, and refuse to 
 do a kindness, because the individual who asked it had unfor- 
 tunately fallen in love, — and engaged himself to a person not 
 likely to make a good clergyman's wife. It seemed — really it 
 seemed upon consideration — that she might, at least, please 
 Eleanor by asking the favour of her father ; and that the re- 
 sponsibility of the decision might be left in his hands. If the 
 petition were granted, the gift would be Lord Rutherford's, not 
 hers ; if it were denied, no blame of unkindness could attach to 
 her ; and, whatever consequences might arise from the im- 
 patience and imprudence of Mr Wentworth and Adelaide, she 
 would have done all that lay in her power to prevent them. So 
 Blanche reasoned with herself at one moment ; so she almost 
 persuaded herself to remove the weight upon her mind, by 
 speaking to her father on the first opportunity. But she was 
 standing by her dressing-table, putting round her neck the chain 
 and locket which Mrs Howard had given her. Her eye fell 
 upon the date inscribed upon the locket — the date of her con- 
 firmation. How many — many thoughts were suggested by it !
 
 THE SARDS DAUGHTER. 255 
 
 - — thoughts of holiness and purity, and that single eye to the 
 glory of God which can alone assist us to a right determination. 
 Again, Blanche knelt in thought at the Cathedral altar, and re- 
 newed the vow of her baptism ; again she seemed to listen to 
 the warning against even the 'appearance of evil;' and to 
 recall the intensity of purpose with which she had sealed the 
 public profession of her devotion, by the secret vow which, in 
 that glorious temple, and that awful Presence, appeared doubly 
 sacred and binding. She had been told then, that no action 
 could be safe that appeared doubtful when she thought of 
 the Judgment : her present difficulty could be tried by that test. 
 When the account of all things done in the flesh should be 
 rendered before God, how would she feel if she yielded to the 
 present temptation ? Before that dread Tribunal would meet 
 the rich and the poor — the learned and the ignorant — the giver 
 and the receiver ; there, the true consequences of every action 
 would be fully seen ; and there, the curse of the hundreds who 
 might be ruined by the evil example of an indifferent or negli- 
 gent clergyman would fall also upon her head. No kindness 
 or affection for individuals would, in that day, plead her excuse. 
 If she wilfully and knowingly aided in confiding such a solemn 
 trust to a person whom she had reason to believe unfitted for it, 
 she could not be held guiltless of the result. 
 
 Thoughts like these were easily encouraged and treasured up 
 in solitude, and, when Blanche left her room, her determination 
 was so fixed that she was comparatively at peace. She wished 
 that Eleanor had come to her earlier, so as to be assured that 
 any further hopes were in vain ; but Eleanor delayed, and 
 Blanche dreaded seeing her, and when they met accidentally, as 
 Miss Grey had noticed, Eleanor's countenance and manner gave 
 her a pang which she could scarcely bear ; and, in an instant, 
 all the former suggestions and doubts returned. 
 
 To a person in perfect health this state of indecision would 
 have been very trying ; but, to Blanche, never very strong, and 
 at that time suffering from serious indisposition, it was crushing. 
 She sat in her father's room, with a book resting upon her knees, 
 scarcely able to appear to read, and finding it difficult even to 
 reply to common questions ; whilst pondering over and over the 
 arguments for and against her decision ; and even, whilst feeling 
 herself right, not able to rest satisfied without reviewing her 
 reasons, repeating all that could be said on the opposite side of 
 the question, and tormenting herself with imagining all the pos-
 
 256 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 sible consequences of her refusal, and the responsibility it seemed 
 she was incurring. 
 
 Lord Rutherford tried in many ways to engage her attention. 
 He showed her his letters, consulted her upon some improve- 
 ments which were to be made at Rutherford, and, at length, 
 finding every attempt fail, sank back in his chair with a heavy 
 sigh and a face which showed uneasiness of no ordinary nature. 
 
 4 You are going out this afternoon, are you not, papa ?' said 
 Blanche, aroused, at length, to a consciousness that his change 
 of manner was caused by her. 
 
 ' Yes, I thought I should ; but I don't know now. I can't 
 go with all that party.' 
 
 4 You will not stay in for me,' said Blanche, affectionately. 
 4 I should be quite vexed if you were to do so.' 
 
 4 There is no pleasure in going out without you ; ' and Lord 
 Rutherford left his seat and walked slowly up and down the 
 room. Blanche cast her eyes again upon her book ; for she 
 felt perplexed, as if she did not know what to say even to him, 
 and in a moment the current of her thoughts had returned to 
 its former channel. When she looked up again, after several 
 minutes, her father was standing by the fire, resting one arm 
 upon the mantelpiece and watching her narrowly. She could 
 not bear this, and tried again to enter into conversation. 
 
 4 You will go out to please me,' she said, with an effort to 
 speak lightly. 
 
 He did not smile or make any answer in return for a few 
 moments, but then he exclaimed suddenly, ' Your aunt was 
 wrong in urging me to bring you here. Rutherford was your 
 best home.' 
 
 4 It was my happiest home,' said Blanche, quietly. * I was 
 more useful there.' 
 
 The earl started, as if a new idea had been suggested to him. 
 4 Yes, occupation ; of course, occupation,' he murmured to him- 
 self ; then, again, recurring to the former subject, he repeated, 
 4 Rutherford was your best home ; we will go back there.' 
 
 4 May we ? shall we ?' replied Blanche. Her eyes brightened 
 with pleasure, for in leaving Senilhurst she thought she should 
 leave temptation and trial. 
 
 'Do you wish it?' said the earl, eagerly, almost hastily. 
 4 You should have told me before.' 
 
 4 It is not a fixed wish ; only at times,' said Blanche : 4 but 
 I should like to feel that I could be doing something. There is
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 257 
 
 nothing but amusement here, except, just now, the little boy at 
 the lodge ; that is the only thing I seem to have particularly to 
 attend to. I should like to see the toys that were .bought for 
 him.' 
 
 ' How could I have forgotten ? ' exclaimed the earl, ringing 
 the bell violently. That one slight allusion to a wish was a com- 
 mand. He threw all his energy, in an instant, into the subject, 
 ordered the parcel to be brought, and drawing Blanche's chair 
 to the table, knelt on one knee beside her, with his arm round 
 her waist, and spread the little toys before her, and discussed 
 which it would be best to give, with an earnestness most touch- 
 ing, vet most sad, for it was the earnestness of idolatrv. 
 
 Blanche's thoughts were a little diverted for the moment. 
 She was particularly fond of children, and the little fellow in 
 whom she now interested herself was singularly engaging. She 
 had seen him several times since the first day of his serious ill- 
 ness ; as often, indeed, as the weather and her own health 
 would permit, for the lodge was within a short walking distance, 
 and she could often go there when she was not able to attempt 
 anything beyond. She thought him very ill, herself ; though 
 the parents would not allow it, and even the medical man spoke 
 sanguinely of his ultimate recovery : and, with this idea, she 
 exerted herself for him more than perhaps was always prudent. 
 
 In a place where there was so little opportunity for personal 
 exertion, this one case seemed to have a peculiar claim upon 
 her. 
 
 But Lord Rutherford was not inclined, on that day, to think 
 of prudence. As soon as he saw that Blanche could smile and 
 take pleasure in consulting for the child's amusement, his whole 
 heart was bent upon gratifying her fancy to the utmost ; and, 
 notwithstanding Lady Charlton's entreaties, he persisted in the 
 idea of driving her to the lodge, after luncheon, instead of riding, 
 as he had intended. 
 
 This gleam of sunshine, however, was but transitory. When 
 the question of the toys was settled, Blanche returned to her 
 book and her restless thoughts, and Lord Rutherford to his 
 watchfulness and foreboding. The luncheon-bell rang, and 
 Blanche proposed to join the rest of the party. ' It was making 
 less fuss,' she said ; ' and she need not stay long.' 
 
 The earl was relieved at the suggestion : anything was better 
 for her than sitting alone ; anything was preferable, for himself, 
 than to witness even the faintest possible shadow of that melan- 
 
 R
 
 258 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 choly love of solitude which had been her mother's character- 
 istic. 
 
 The dining-room was filled when they went in. Miss Grey, 
 dressed in her riding-habit, was acting extreme surprise and dis- 
 appointment at the breaking-up of the afternoon's engagement, 
 and looking wistfully at Lord Erlsmere for sympathy, which he 
 did not appear inclined to give, his attention being engaged by 
 a chance visitor, who was believed to have considerable parlia- 
 mentary influence. 
 
 Blanche, however, had neither care nor thought for any one 
 except Eleanor. She did not see her at first, for they were on 
 the same side of the table and far apart ; and, after a little 
 time, she began to feel faint and nervous, and repented having 
 come into a crowded room. The talking and laughing that 
 were going on around her made her head dizzy ; and it was an 
 effort to her to try and catch Eleanor's voice, and judge if she 
 was really as wretched as she had looked in the morning. 
 
 However, something was said, at length, which effectually 
 aroused her from the dreamy state into which she was sinking. 
 It was a speech addressed to Lord Rutherford by Sir Hugh. 
 
 ' My dear Rutherford, you will excuse me : I hope it is not 
 intruding — not trespassing too much upon the rights of private 
 patronage ; but, pray, what have you settled as to that great 
 living of yours, Whitfield ? ' 
 
 The knife which Blanche held in her hand dropped from it, 
 as she sat, motionless, to hear the answer. 
 
 ; Nothing.' 
 
 Sir Hugh was a little daunted by its shortness ; especially as 
 Lady Charlton, at the same instant, sent a lightning-glance of 
 caution across the table ; and, nearly as quick, a message by a 
 servant, to beg that Sir Hugh would tell Pearson where to find 
 a curious collection of parliamentary tracts, for Lord Erlsmere 
 and his friends to look at after luncheon. But Sir Hugh re- 
 turned to the charge. It was a famous piece of patronage — 
 that living ; one of the best in England. Some people con- 
 sidered it the high-road to a bishopric, since two bishops had, 
 within a few years, held it. Not that he was of that opinion ; 
 he had made many observations upon the subject ; more, he 
 suspected, than most people. He had kept lists of all the 
 bishops made within his recollection, and traced out the causes 
 of their election. It was not every one who could do so ; but, 
 with his extensive acquaintance — his connection with the late
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 259 
 
 premier — his Sir Hugh had quite lost himself; but he 
 
 nodded his head, oracularly, and ended with — ' Depend upon 
 it, there is a good deal of mystery in the appointment of 
 bishops.' 
 
 Lord Erlsmcre caught the last words, and turning to Sir 
 
 Hugh, asked if he had heard that Dr was certainly to 
 
 have the next vacant seat on the bench. 
 
 Sir Hugh supposed and inferred, and thought it most prob- 
 able, from his own private means of information ; and he had a 
 great many, a very great many, as Lord Erlsmcre must be 
 aware ; but, he was not then thinking about bishops, he was 
 merely giving his opinion about the living of Whitfield, one of 
 the largest livings in England. 
 
 ' Oh yes, by the by ; ' and Lord Erlsmere innocently appealed 
 to Lord Rutherford for information, not being aware that the 
 decision was still uncertain, and that the earl disliked all 
 curiosity upon what he deemed his private affairs. 
 
 The answer was as unsatisfactory as before ; but it had not 
 the effect of setting aside the subject, which was now fairly 
 established. The value of the living, its claims, and its re- 
 sponsibilities, were all discussed ; not earnestly by any one but 
 Lord Erlsmere ; yet the facts brought forward, of spiritual 
 destitution, ignorance, and crime, were very startling and dread- 
 ful to Blanche. She had never heard of such details before ; 
 and, as she listened to them, it seemed that even Eleanor, with 
 all her fondness for her brother, could scarcely put his interest 
 in competition with the welfare of thousands. Unconsciously 
 a sigh escaped her ; it reached the quick ear of her father, and 
 in an under-tone he asked if she was tired : but she scarcely 
 heard him, so intent was she upon a story, a horrible story, of 
 suffering and misery, which Lord Erlsmere was telling Lady 
 Charlton. It was suffering from a clergyman's neglect. In her 
 eagerness, Blanche leant forward, her eye caught Eleanor's, and 
 the next moment Eleanor pushed back her chair, and excusing 
 herself to Lady Charlton, by saying that she did not feel well 
 left the room by herself. 
 
 ' You shall not go with her,' said Maude Charlton, go'mp 
 behind Blanche's chair, as with a face of anxiety she wa* 
 about to rise and follow. She laid her hand firmly upon 
 Blanche's shoulder, and continued, in a low voice, ' Trust me, 
 she is not really ill.' 
 
 Blanche tried to free herself, but Maude still kept behind
 
 260 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 her, and addressing Lord Rutherford, begged him to carry 
 Blanche away to his study. ' I shall take care of Miss Went- 
 worth myself,' she added. 
 
 Blanche looked up with a feeling of irritation, and answered, 
 almost haughtily, that it was her wish to go to Eleanor ; she 
 did not mean to exert herself, but she must go. And Maude 
 drew back coldly, and suffered her to pass from the room 
 without another word. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 I~^ LEAN OR was kneeling by her bed, her face bent down 
 — ' upon the coverlid ; an open letter lay on the ground ; 
 and Blanche saw that it was from Mrs Wentworth. 
 
 ' Eleanor, dearest,' said Blanche, and she stooped down and 
 kissed her ; and Eleanor rose, and pointing to the letter, 
 answered with a bitter calmness, ' Judge what you are doing.' 
 
 Blanche took up the letter ; her limbs trembled, and she sat 
 down to read it, whilst Eleanor stood by watching the changes 
 that passed over her face. 
 
 The bold legible handwriting was the transcript of Mrs 
 Wentworth's mind : yet lines of weakness and suffering might 
 be traced in it ; for it was the outpouring of a mother's un- 
 easiness. The letter had been written upon the day on which 
 Charles had left the rectory for the avowed purpose of trans- 
 acting business in London. What business no one knew, or 
 could understand ; no one at least at Rutherford. But it was 
 possible that Eleanor was better informed, and her mother 
 wrote to request, even to entreat, that if she could throw any 
 light upon her brother's movements, she would, in pity both to 
 Dr Wentworth and herself, do so without fail. 
 
 ' It is not a mere wish to seek out all that Charles does and 
 thinks,' wrote Airs Wentworth, ' which makes me ask. At his 
 age there may be subjects upon which he may not wish to be 
 open ; though, strictly speaking, there ought to be none which 
 a son should fear to confide to his mother ; but I would not 
 strain the point. Only, at such a time, to have mysteries and 
 concealments ! — it makes my heart sink. I fear lest we are 
 mistaking him ; lest, after all his outward professions and his
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 261 
 
 real improvement, there should not be that stability of character 
 which is essential to the right performance of a clergyman's 
 duties. Feeling, I am quite sure he has — the very strongest ; 
 but feeling will not carry him safely through the dangers of the 
 world ; neither is it a sufficient guarantee for the performance 
 of his ordination vows. I am very unhappy, perhaps cause- 
 lessly. Your father does not view r things in the same light. 
 He says, we ought to be satisfied with Charles's conduct of 
 late ; for that he has done all that could possibly be required to 
 prepare himself for a clergyman's life ; and that he is certain 
 of his conscientiousness. I would give worlds to feel the same ; 
 but I recollect all that went on in the summer — that folly with 
 Adelaide Charlton ; and I fancy that perhaps something of the 
 same kind is in his thoughts now. God grant my fears may 
 be groundless. I scarcely know why I have them so strongly; 
 perhaps it is from the very fact of the misery the reality would 
 cause me. It would be the destruction of the one day-dream 
 which has cheered me amidst all the trials of my life. I have 
 lived upon the hope of seeing Charles a clergyman in heart as 
 well as in profession. If this is not to be — if he is to be luke- 
 warm or worldly — let him go ; let him choose the army, the 
 law, a merchant's office — anything ; I shall never live to see 
 the error of his ways, for my heart will break.' 
 
 Blanche was about to refold the letter, but Eleanor turned to 
 the other side, and pointed to the postscript, written by Dr 
 Wentworfh. 
 
 ' Your mother is not well ; which, I think, is one cause of 
 her worrying herself so much about Charles. She had a slight 
 attack, yesterday, of one of those fits which she was subject to 
 years ago, at the time of poor Lady Rutherford's death. I 
 have had a long conversation with Mr Dawson about her 
 to-day, and he assures me there is nothing to alarm us, but 
 that she must be kept quiet. I only mention this in order that 
 you may write cheerfully about Charles. As to the London 
 business, no young man likes to be asked the reason of every- 
 thing he does. I did not like it myself when I was his age, 
 and I begged your mother to let it pass ; but she would question 
 him, and then made herself wretched because he was annoyed 
 and did not like to answer. "We shall expect you both home 
 together, the earliest day you can manage to come ; only give 
 us notice beforehand. You will hear from Charles immediately, 
 I imagine.'
 
 262 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 When Blanche had finished, and given the letter back again 
 into Eleanor's hands, there was a silence of some moments. 
 Each dreaded to say what was uppermost in her thoughts. 
 
 ' You see/ said Eleanor, at length, with a forced quietness of 
 manner, ' I did not exaggerate.' 
 
 ' There seems no cause for immediate alarm,' replied Blanche, 
 feeling, as she spoke, that her words were cold. 
 
 Eleanor remarked the tone directly, and exclaimed — ' O 
 Blanche, can you be so changed ? is my mother's health — 
 her life — of no value to you ? Do you not know that it was 
 sorrow for your mother, and anxiety and fatigue in nursing her, 
 which first undermined her strength ? ' 
 
 Tears gathered in the eyes of Blanche, but she tried to check 
 them, as she answered, ' I know you do not mean to be unkind, 
 Eleanor. You would not willingly make me wretched. Try me 
 in any other way ; tell me anything else that I can do ' 
 
 ' Anything except the one thing ; the one only favour which 
 will save my mother's life!' exclaimed Eleanor. 'Yes,' she 
 continued, as Blanche shuddered and drew back, startled at the 
 expression ; ' what I said last night, is nothing to what I must 
 say to-day. It is all hastening forward so rapidly : in another 
 week it will be too late to interpose. I have heard from Charles 
 myself ; he is in London ; he does not venture to let me know 
 his plans ; but he writes in desperation. He will not see that 
 mamma is unequal to bear any shock ; he believes that it is my 
 fancy. His present life, he says, is wretchedness, and he knows 
 but one way of extricating himself ; that means,' and Eleanor's 
 voice shook, ' that he will marry Adelaide privately, and break 
 my mother's heart.' 
 
 Blanche's cheek became very pale, and she looked faint and 
 exhausted ; but she said, firmly, ' Any sacrifice but that of con- 
 science. Eleanor, you cannot ask that.' 
 
 ' I know it ; I feel how hard it is,' exclaimed Eleanor, chang- 
 ing her tone. ' When we were listening to what was said at 
 luncheon, I felt certain of the effect upon your mind. But, 
 Blanche, when Charles has done an act of which he will repent 
 for his whole life ; and when my father's happiness is ruined, 
 and my mother is — I dare not say what she may be — it is 
 paralysis with which she is threatened : when all this has come, 
 will it never cross your mind with regret, that one word of 
 yours might have prevented it ? I speak my deliberate opinion,' 
 she added. ' The last words of Charles's letter are : " Give
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 263 
 
 me but the hope of being able to come forward honourably 
 and openly, before another three months have passed over 
 my head, and I will be contented to wait ; if not, delay is 
 useless." ' 
 
 Blanche leant her head upon her hand to hide her tears. 
 
 ' My answer must go by to-day's post,' said Eleanor. ' I 
 have left my letter open, waiting for your final determination.' 
 
 ' It will not help you,' replied Blanche, in an accent of great 
 suffering. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, indeed, it will,' exclaimed Eleanor. < Pray do 
 not think that ; it will, at the least, be delay, and a thousand 
 things may happen in three months ; the engagement may be 
 broken off. If it is not, still Charles will have taken orders, 
 and my mother will be spared the shock I dread for her. O 
 Blanche, what fearful evil you have it in your power to pre- 
 vent ! ' 
 
 A message from Lord Rutherford interrupted them. He had 
 ordered the pony-chaise, and hoped that Lady Blanche would 
 be ready to go with him in ten minutes' time. Eleanor re- 
 ceived the message, closed the door again, and bolted it ; and 
 going up to Blanche, said, as she grasped her hand in the 
 agony of entreaty, ' Think, only once more. If I do not write 
 to-day, he will come down ; not here, but to the neighbourhood. 
 He will see Adelaide, and it will be all over, for them and for 
 me. Not for my mother, but for myself I ask it. Blanche, it 
 
 has been my own doing, and the consequences ' her voice 
 
 sank into a deep whisper, and Blanche caught only the words, 
 ' Save me ; save me from them.' 
 
 For a moment Blanche wavered. Eleanor pursued her ad- 
 vantage, but it was one step too far. ' Indeed you may trust 
 me,' she said ; ' all that I have told you is truth. Only grant 
 my request, and everything will be right. If nothing should 
 break off the engagement, Charles will be quite open, and Sir 
 Hugh will support him. We know it; we are quite certain ot 
 it,' she added, eagerly. ' Pearson has told Adelaide's maid, who 
 is obliged to be a little in the secret, that Sir Hugh is devoted 
 to Charles.' 
 
 Blanche started from her seat. It seemed as if a veil had 
 been suddenly withdrawn from her eyes. ' I will leave the 
 affair in their hands,' she said, with a cold, quiet dignity. 
 1 Thank you for letting me know who are your counsellors.' 
 She walked to the door ; but her gentle nature was not proof
 
 264 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 against Eleanor's look of despair, and once more returning to 
 her, she said, ' Eleanor, you have tempted me very far; almost 
 to act against my conscience. I trust there is no one else who 
 would have led me in the same way ; but let me tell you my 
 true opinion of this business. You say that Adelaide's maid is 
 obliged to be in your secret. Pearson, of course, must suspect 
 it. A gossiping girl and a fawning man-servant ! And you 
 are forced to entrust to their discretion facts which would make 
 your mother miserable, and my aunt indignant. A few months 
 ago the very thought of such a thing would have disgusted you. 
 I am sure it must disgust you now. I do not wish to hear how 
 much or how little they know ; but, for myself, I would rather 
 give up rank, and wealth, and friends, and beg my bread in the 
 streets, than suffer my name to be mixed up with a clandestine 
 engagement, and my character for sincerity and delicacy, 
 and all that one holds most dear, to be at the mercy of my 
 servants.' 
 
 ' And if it is too late to retract ? ' said Eleanor. 
 
 Blanche paused. ' It cannot be too late to amend,' she said, 
 after a moment's consideration. ' I do not see how, now, and 
 1 have not time to think ; but something must be possible.' 
 
 Eleanor shook her head. ' One way there is : grant my 
 request and you may impose your own conditions.' 
 
 She was not answered. Blanche turned away as from a 
 temptation which she dared not encounter again. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 IF Lord Rutherford had seen cause for anxiety' in the morn- 
 ing, when Blanche sat alone with him in his study, he could 
 scarcely be more satisfied when she came to him prepared for 
 her drive. The change even in that short time was painful ; 
 she looked quite haggard ; her eyes bore the traces of tears, 
 and her whole manner was that of a person bowed down by a 
 weight of care. The earl could not delude himself any longer 
 by thinking that she was merely languid and uncomfortable 
 from not being well ; a much deeper cause there must be, he 
 was certain, for such" strange depression. Or was there no 
 cause ? — nothing but indefinable wretchedness — the precursor
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 265 
 
 of more lasting misery ? — and swiftly, in a moment, his thoughts 
 travelled back through the long lapse of years, whilst striving 
 to remember the first indication which had struck him of his 
 wife's morbid temperament. His thoughts made him silent 
 during the short drive ; and Blanche was only too willing not 
 to be obliged to exert herself. She was sorry when they stopped 
 at the lodge, for the fresh air was reviving ; but the afternoons 
 closed in quickly, and she had but a short time allowed her. 
 Lord Rutherford followed her into the cottage. It was strangely 
 natural to him now to be there; he who had never once entered 
 the house, even of one of his own labourers, except when busi- 
 ness made it necessary, was now a recognised and welcome 
 guest in the sanded kitchen, where, stretched upon a low pallet, 
 lay the sick child, his pale face flushed with pleasure, and his 
 little thin hand stretched out to welcome the lady whom he had 
 not seen for many days. The earl seated himself by the fire ; 
 when Blanche was present he had no wish except to watch her, 
 and listen to her, and yield himself to an influence so different 
 from all which for years had governed him, that it seemed to 
 present to him a new phase of existence. Yet it was not very 
 much that Blanche said. She was shy before her father, and 
 the disquietude of her mind gave her a tone of unusual reserve. 
 But the child was not aware of any difference of manner ; he 
 only knew that some one was near him who was kind to him, 
 and had brought him toys to play with, and pictures ; and, 
 with the simplicity and openness of his age, he made his re- 
 marks, and called for her attention, until insensibly Blanche's 
 interest was absorbed, and she forgot that there was any other 
 care or duty to be thought of. Then she talked freely and 
 cheerfully, and the boy grew more and more happy to have her 
 with him ; and discovering, by a natural instinct, where his 
 wondering and childish, yet reverent, thoughts would meet with 
 sympathy, asked questions which if at times they were hard 
 to answer, yet betokened a irrtnd strangely beyond his years. 
 The pictures, he told her, he liked so much — the Scripture ones 
 — those which were about people being made well ; and, raising 
 his eyes to Blanche, with an expression of great awe, he said, 
 as he laid his finger upon a figure representing our Lord, ' It 
 must have been so pleasant to be with Him ; He looks so 
 kind.' Blanche tried to give him a personal feeling of grati- 
 tude, by speaking of the blessings which had been granted to 
 himself.
 
 266 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Yes,' he said, there were a great many. His mother was 
 good to him, and his sister ; and they made his bed comfort- 
 able when he was tired ; but he knew it was our Saviour who 
 taught them to do it. ' And He makes you come and see me,' 
 he added. ' Do you like to come ? ' 
 
 Blanche could scarcely repress a smile at the eagerness with 
 which the question was put ; as if a sudden doubt had crossed 
 his mind. 
 
 ' I like it, and the gentleman likes it too,' she said, looking 
 towards her father. ' It was he who went to Cobham to buy the 
 toys for you.' 
 
 The child fixed his eyes upon Lord Rutherford, with a half- 
 timid gratitude which he dared not speak; and the look drew 
 the earl from his seat by the fire, and he went to the bed- 
 bide. 
 
 i Thank you !' said the child, fancying that he had come to be 
 thanked. ' Sissy and I shall play with them by and by ; and 
 I must say "Thank you" to our Saviour too; mustn't I ?' he 
 added, appealing to Blanche, ' because He told him to do it, like 
 your coming to see me.' Then taking up one of the prints, he 
 held it before the earl, asking whether he would not like to see 
 it — it was so pretty. ' That is a little boy saying his prayers,' 
 he continued. 'I say my prayers too, when I can ; when I am 
 very tired, Sissy says them for me. Do you think you could say 
 them for me?' 
 
 ' I daresay the gentleman could, if he knew what to say,' 
 interrupted Blanche, quickly; 'or I might, if you liked it. But, 
 I suppose, Sissy says your prayers for you at night before you 
 go to bed?' 
 
 ' But I should like to have them said now. I should like to 
 have you to say them; ' and the wish having once suggested itself, 
 the child grew quite excited, his cheek flushed, and his breathing 
 became quick. 'You would say them better than Sissy; and 
 sometimes she looks about; I don't like her to look about.' 
 
 ' People should be quite still, and keep their eyes shut, or else 
 look down upon their books, when they say their prayers,' said 
 Blanche. ' I daresay Sissy will, when she grows older. Does 
 she ever read to you?' 
 
 ' Yes, sometimes ; but mother reads at night, about the beau- 
 tiful city. That's where the clergyman says I'm going. Should 
 you like to hear about it, if the lady reads it?' he added, turning 
 to Lord Rutherford.
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 267 
 
 ' The lady is tired,' answered the earl ; ' don't you see how 
 white she is ?' 
 
 The little boy gazed at Blanche steadily, and after a few 
 moments of thought said, with a very earnest voice, ' She looks 
 like me when mother puts the glass before me. Is she going to 
 the beautiful city, too?' 
 
 Lord Rutherford's countenance changed. He caught up 
 Blanche's cloak from a chair, and wrapping it round her, ob- 
 served that they must go. 
 
 ' Then you can't say my prayers for me to-day ? ' asked the 
 child, with a disappointed air. 
 
 Blanche looked at her father entreatingly. ' If he wishes it 
 so much,' she said, ' might I not stay five minutes ? His little 
 prayer can scarcely take so long. What is it you say, 
 Johnnie ? ' 
 
 '"Our Father!" and "I pray God to bless mother and 
 Sissy;" and the clergyman taught me another,' answered the 
 child. 
 
 ' And if I were to say " Our Father ! " for you, should you 
 like it ? ' 
 
 The little pale face brightened with pleasure, and Blanche, 
 after one glance at the earl, who was standing passively waiting 
 her will, knelt down. There was a moment's pause ; and the 
 child, touching Blanche's arm, asked, ' Doesn't the gentleman 
 say his prayers too?' 
 
 Blanche made no answer, she repeated the prayer. The little 
 boy joining in it with his hands clasped and his eyes closed. 
 When it was ended, and she rose up, Lord Rutherford was 
 kneeling by her side, his head still bowed in the attitude of 
 devotion. 
 
 'And now, good-bye,' said Blanche, gathering her cloak 
 around her and preparing to go. 
 
 The child kept her hand, ' Thank you for saying the prayer, 
 and next time you will read about the beautiful city, where I 'm 
 going ; won't you ? ' 
 
 Blanche kissed his forehead, and as a smile passed over his 
 features, he whispered, ' I hope you will come soon, for I know 
 you will be happier.' They were his parting words. Lord 
 Rutherford hurried Blanche into the pony-carriage, and seizing 
 the reins, drove rapidly homewards. 
 
 Maude met them at the hall-door, fretted apparently, and full 
 of business. Scarcely noticing Blanche, she said to the earl,
 
 2 63 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' Mr Johnstone has been here, waiting for the last quarter of an 
 hour ; he says he must see .you before the post goes out, if 
 possible.' 
 
 The earl looked anxiously at Blanche. ' Take care of her,' 
 he said to Maude. < I have been very foolish — mad, I believe, — 
 keeping her out so late, till she is half-dead. Mr Johnstone 
 wants me, did you say ? Oh! yes, I remember, about the 
 Whitfield living.' 
 
 He was going, but Blanche's voice stopped him. ' Papa, 
 may I ask ? what did you say ? ' and in an instant the colour 
 had mounted to her cheeks, though only again to leave them of 
 a more deadly hue. 
 
 ' The living of Whitfield, my child ; that is all : nothing to 
 disturb you. Mr Johnstone has made application for a friend.' 
 
 ' A friend ! v/hat friend ? — a good one?' said Blanche, hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 ; A good one, of course. Mr Johnstone, every one says, is 
 to be depended on. But, my dear love, you are quite excited. 
 Do you want the living for yourself?' 
 
 Blanche laughed faintly ; her knees trembled very much, and 
 she sat down on one of the hall-chairs. Maude scarcely assisted 
 her. A sudden gravity had gathered upon her face, and she 
 folded her hands, awaiting what was next to be done. 
 
 ' We must have your maid, my love,' said the earl. ' She 
 must take care of you, and you must lie down and rest. I will 
 ling for her ; and then I must go to Mr Johnstone.' 
 
 Blanche still detained him. Would he let her know — if it 
 was not wrong— if she might be told — would it all be settled 
 to-day about the living ? 
 
 A strong warning grasp was laid upon her arm, as Maude, 
 stooping down under pretence of picking up her glove, said, in 
 an under-voice, ' So miserably weak ! — O Blanche !' 
 
 Blanche started ; her eye caught her father's, full of strange 
 sadness. She felt quite bewildered. What did he mean ? and 
 what did Maude mean ? Was she doing anything wrong ? 
 Were they vexed with her ? Did they know her secret ? She 
 was so tired, so ill, so worn, that all her natural strength of 
 mind gave way, and she burst into tears. 
 
 Maude's manner softened a little, but the earl spoke sternly; 
 so it might have been called, but for an involuntary quivering 
 of his lip. He wished her to go to his study, he said ; it was 
 quite close, and it would be the best place for her, and Maude
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 269 
 
 might beg Mr Johnstone to wait. There was time ; if there 
 was not, he could not come to him — he must wait. 
 
 Maude lingered for a moment, apparently seeking for one 
 more word with Blanche ; but Lord Rutherford gave her no 
 opportunity for it, and, opening the study door, led Blanche 
 into the room, and said, with the quietness of great self-control, 
 ' Blanche, my child, we are alone ; now you will be open with 
 me. There is something amiss. If it is a wish ungratified, 
 you have only to speak.' 
 
 Blanche could not answer him. 
 
 Eleanor's despairing tones of entreaty were again sounding 
 in her ears ; and weak though it was to waver, it was agony 
 to resist. 
 
 The earl waited in silence for a few seconds, his countenance 
 showing more and more plainly the distress of his mind. ' You 
 cannot fear I shall refuse/ he said at length, almost reproach- 
 fully. ' Is it in my power now? Will it be so hereafter? Can 
 money purchase it, or time, or influence, or exertion ? Only, 
 in pity tell me.' 
 
 Blanche shook her head. She tried to find words for an 
 answer — anything to satisfy him ; but it seemed impossible. 
 
 The earl withdrew himself from her, and stood moodily by 
 the fire. 
 
 ' I do not doubt, indeed, papa, that you would give me every- 
 thing,' said Blanche, forcing herself at last to speak. 
 
 ' Then why may I not be told ?' he exclaimed, quickly. ' If 
 it is a request ' ■ 
 
 ' But it is not. I have nothing to ask ; only, if I knew what 
 was right — if I could be quite, quite sure.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford's impetuous manner was subdued; but there 
 was far greater sadness in his tone than before, as seating him- 
 self on the sofa beside her, and drawing her towards him, he 
 said, ' My poor, poor child, is there no peace on earth, then, 
 even for you ? ' 
 
 ' If I could be quite sure — quite certain,' repeated Blanche. 
 
 'And is that all? Is it nothing definite?' asked the earl. 
 He waited breathlessly for the answer; and at that moment to 
 have been told that Blanche was suffering under the burden of 
 some overpowering calamity would have been a relief from the 
 foreboding which made his heart sicken with dread. But again 
 there was no rest for his fears ; for a few moments of recollection 
 had brought to Blanche the remembrance that she had no right
 
 27 o THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 to awaken suspicions which might eventually betray the secrets 
 of others, and she was silent. 
 
 Lady Charlton's knock was just then heard at the door. 
 'Mr Johnstone,' she said, 'was becoming uneasy;' and she 
 begged Lord Rutherford not to delay seeing him. 
 
 As she spoke she glanced at Blanche in surprise and some 
 curiosity ; but the earl scarcely heeded her. His whole thought 
 was centred in Blanche ; and, as soon as the door was again 
 closed, he said, 'Then there is something — a wish — a want 
 unfulfilled ; or is it disappointment ? You spoke of it once ; 
 you said that the world was dreary. O Blanche, is it through 
 me that it is so ? — through my fault ? God knows it may be 
 my penalty.' 
 
 ' Papa ! papa ! ' exclaimed Blanche, ' pray do not speak so or 
 think so. It is not through you ; I could not be so ungrateful.' 
 ' But you may be afraid ; your wish may seem a difficult one 
 to grant,' continued the earl, 'yet solemnly and sincerely, I 
 would repeat what before you may have thought to be mere 
 words. As the one only atonement which I can make for the 
 misery of your unhappy mother, ask what you will, and if it is 
 in the power of human effort to obtain it, it shall be yours.' 
 
 Blanche threw her arms around his neck, and answered, ' I 
 want nothing.' 
 
 Again they were interrupted. The door was hastily opened 
 by Eleanor Wentworth. Agitation and excitement were visible 
 in her countenance, but she apologised calmly. She had 
 understood Blanche was by herself, and she was wishing to 
 speak with her. 
 
 Lord Rutherford was leaving the room, but he returned to 
 give a parting kiss to Blanche, and whisper, ' Remember you 
 have only to ask.' 
 
 He was gone, and Eleanor and Blanche were alone. Eleanor's 
 errand was quickly told. This was her last effort — her last 
 moment of hope. Blanche listened again to her former argu- 
 ments, her reiterated miserable entreaties. They were more 
 plausible, more urgent than ever. ' Ten minutes more — only 
 ten,' she said, pointing to the time-piece, ' and it will be useless 
 to ask. Mr Johnstone is certain to carry his point ; he is to 
 write by this day's post. Lady Charlton supports him. Lord 
 Rutherford is already inclined to listen to him. In remembrance 
 of all our happiness, and our love which was to last for ever, 
 Blanche, have pity on me.'
 
 THE J '. I RL 'S DA UGHTRR. 2 7 1 
 
 Blanche was lying on the sofa, without the power of argu- 
 ment, but she had strength to say, ' Leave me, and return in 
 five minutes ; ' and Eleanor, seeing a ray of hope in this appa- 
 rent yielding, left her. 
 
 They were five minutes of intense wretchedness ; Blanche 
 was not able to compose her mind sufficiently for thought, the. 
 consequences of her decision crowded upon her. Misery for 
 Eleanor — despair for Mrs Wcntworth — recklessness and folly 
 for Adelaide and Charles. Even the ticking of the clock was 
 distracting, and in the greatness of her distress, she threw her- 
 self upon her knees and prayed for certainty. God answers our 
 prayers, but not as we expect. 
 
 Eleanor re-opened the door, and Blanche started up ; but, 
 before a question could be asked, Lord Rutherford returned, 
 accompanied by Mr Johnstone. A number of letters were in 
 his hand, which he threw upon the table, with an exclamation 
 of fear, lest they should not be sealed in time for the post. 
 
 Eleanor stopped as she was hurrying away, and asked if she 
 could be of any assistance. Certainly, if she would be kind 
 enough, it would be a great help ; and Lord Rutherford lighted 
 the taper, put his seal into her hand, and then, relieved from a 
 tiresome task, turned to Blanche and said. ' I could scarcely 
 prevail upon Mr Johnstone to come and see you, he was afraid 
 of tiring you ; but I insisted upon it. You know his business ; 
 he is a very able advocate, and I think I cannot do better than 
 follow his opinion ; still I have a fancy, — it has haunted me 
 whilst we have been talking, — that you have some wish of your 
 own in this affair. I have told him that if it is so, the decision 
 must rest with you.' 
 
 'Is this letter to be sealed?' asked Eleanor; the direction 
 was in Mr Johnstone's handwriting. 
 
 Mr Johnstone smiled. ' It is for Lady Blanche to deter- 
 mine,' he said ; ' the letter is to my friend ; it contains the 
 promise of the living. I could not have asked for it for him if 
 I had not known him to be fitted for it — earnest, energetic, 
 humble-minded, accustomed to the necessities of a large manu- 
 facturing population. But there may be others as fitted, and I 
 cannot believe that Lady Blanche would wish to incur the 
 responsibility of entrusting such a charge to one who was not.' 
 
 A pause followed ; Eleanor stooped down, and pushed a foot- 
 stool towards Blanche, and whispered, ' My mother.' 
 
 ' Speak, my child.' said Lord Rutherford. ' Tell us if you
 
 272 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 have any wish, or feeling even upon this matter. Is there any 
 one whom you have ever desired to benefit ? ' 
 
 Blanche's heart beat so quickly that her breath was almost 
 gone. Lord Rutherford looked alarmed ; he rang the bell for 
 some water. The servant was already at the door; he was come 
 for the letters for the post ; Lord Rutherford put them into his 
 hand, all but the one unsealed. Again he referred to Blanche, 
 ' Shall I seal it ? Are you quite sure ? ' 
 
 Blanche waited for one moment only to gather strength for 
 the effort, and then, with a firm voice, said, ' Yes, quite sure ; 
 thank you for asking, but I have no wish to have a voice in the 
 matter.' 
 
 The letter was sealed and sent. Blanche talked quietly with 
 Mr Johnstone for a few minutes upon indifferent subjects, and 
 then went to her room ; but no one, not even her father, saw her 
 again that evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 IT was a brilliant spectacle, when the long suite of rooms and 
 the great hall at Senilhurst were lighted up in celebration 
 of the seventeenth birthday of the Lady Blanche Evelyn. Many 
 who saw it kept the remembrance of it as a scene to be de- 
 scribed to their children, and their children's children after 
 them ; and some few, who knew the circumstances of that 
 evening and the events which followed, recurred to it with mel- 
 ancholy interest, to marvel at the mockery of human happiness, 
 and the strange contrariety that so often exists between the out- 
 ward and the inward phases of this mortal life. 
 
 Yes, it was a brilliant spectacle — with the dazzling lights 
 shining amidst evergreen leaves, and the choicest flowers that 
 art could force from nature, wreathing the glasses which re- 
 flected on all sides forms of elegance and beauty ; and exqui- 
 sitely sweet were the strains of music that echoed through the 
 lofty apartments, furnished by wealth and taste with all that 
 could minister to the enjoyment of the senses. 
 
 The seventeenth birthday of Blanche Evelyn ! they who 
 looked upon her said that it could scarcely be. So childlike 
 and simple she seemed, so unconscious of her own position, sq
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 273 
 
 rasy and unreserved in manner, and not even shrinking from 
 notice, because she was unaware of attracting it. And they 
 said also that she was happy : that her laugh was the laugh of 
 a light heart, that the flush upon her cheek was caused by gay 
 excitement, and that her occasional restlessness and eagerness 
 were the natural impulses of a child upon her first introduction 
 into society. And so she was watched and criticised, and 
 mothers coveted her grace, and daughters envied her beauty, 
 and a few turned to mark an eye which was following her with 
 proud delight, and shook their heads and sighed, that a father's 
 hopes should be centred in one whose very loveliness and purity 
 were marked with the tokens of an early grave. 
 
 Shall we look upon the truth ? There is a lesson to be learnt 
 in the most delusive scenes of the world's joyousness, as striking, 
 it may be, as in the closet or the church. 
 
 The evening's entertainment was just beginning. A few 
 early guests had arrived, and, together with one or two of the 
 visitors in the house, were assembled with Lady Charlton in 
 the drawing-room. Conversation was rather dull ; it usually is 
 so at the first opening. Lady Charlton found it difficult to avoid 
 pauses, and heartily wished for further arrivals ; and the ap- 
 pearance of Mrs Cuthbert Grey and her two daughters was 
 hailed as a great acquisition. 
 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey looked particularly young in her even- 
 ing dress ; it was not easy to believe that she could be the 
 mother of two tall girls ; and the consciousness of this gave her 
 a certain vivacity of manner which was just then particularly 
 needed. 
 
 ' It is quite pleasant to see you here,' began Lady Charlton, 
 addressing her ; ' I thought this afternoon that we should lose 
 you after all.' 
 
 ' Not willingly,' was the reply ; ' you know where my incli- 
 nations have led me from the first. Nothing but absolute 
 necessity would have taken me home ; besides, it would have 
 been unkind to Adelaide. You are aware we are really deter- 
 mined to carry her off with us to-night.' Lady Charlton did not 
 dissent, in words at least ; and Mrs Cuthbert Grey went on : 
 ' It is a perfect charity to spare her, for Agnes and I are en- 
 gaged to dine and sleep at Weston on Thursday ; and Caroline 
 would be left quite alone.' 
 
 Lady Charlton seemed a little startled at this announcement ; 
 but, before she had time to speak, Mis? Caroline Grey inter-
 
 274 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 posed : ' You know, mamma, it is not absolutely certain I 
 shall be alone ; those cousins of ours from Wales are coming 
 almost immediately. They may come to-morrow ; there is only 
 a possibility of my being alone.' 
 
 ' Still, it is a possibility one should be glad to escape, my 
 dear ; and Lady Charlton is very kind in sparing Adelaide. 
 Indeed, I cannot say how obliged I am.' 
 
 Miss Caroline Grey paid but little attention to her mother's 
 remark. She was seized with a sudden interest in Lady 
 Blanche, and a desire to learn who had seen her lately, and if 
 it was quite certain that she would be well enough to appear 
 that evening. The mention of Blanche's name caused a 
 general interest, and Lady Charlton was only too pleased to be 
 called upon to answer the many inquiries as to what had been 
 the matter ; whether she was strong, whether the air of Senil- 
 hurst agreed with her, and if she was likely to remain during 
 the winter. 
 
 Her niece had been ill, she said. She had indeed made 
 them all a little anxious ; but she had improved very much 
 since the preceding day, and had insisted upon joining the 
 party that evening. ' She is not to dance much, or exert her- 
 self,' added Lady Charlton, turning to Mrs Cuthbert Grey. 
 ' Her doctor gave special orders upon that point ; in fact, I 
 suspect if he had had his will, she would have kept to her room, 
 but she had set her heart upon being present. Poor child ! 
 very natural at her age ; her first ball, and in her own honour ! 
 and she would not hear of its being postponed.' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere here joined the party, and remarked that he 
 had just met Lady Blanche going to her father's study. He 
 was quite struck with her, he said, she had such an unusual 
 colour, and looked so much better than when he last saw 
 her. 
 
 Lady Charlton was engaged with some more guests, and Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey whispered to Lord Erslmere, < Ah yes ! poor 
 thing ! excitement — all excitement ; the earl sees it quite 
 plainly. He has been wretched about her the last two days. 
 You know how she has shut herself up, and now she comes out 
 quite well, as it seems ; just like her mother. She had all 
 those fancies. You never could depend upon her spirits from 
 one hour to another.' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere looked very grave ; it was so sad a prospect, 
 he said, for such a lovely young creature ; and when he was
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 275 
 
 with her he could never believe it possible. Her mind seemed 
 so peculiarly well-disciplined, her temper so equable. 
 
 ' Oh ! but they are not symptoms to be depended on,' con- 
 tinued Mrs Cuthbert Grey. ' I could tell you things — Agnes, 
 my love, what was it you were saying to me about poor Lady 
 Blanche, just now ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! nothing, mamma, nothing ; really I did not mean to 
 mention it to any one, except yourself ; — but it was strange.' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere could not avoid a little curiosity. 
 
 ' It was what her maid said,' began Mrs Cuthbert Grey. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, yes, mamma,' interrupted Miss Grey, hastily. 
 • But it is not fair to repeat such things to Lord Erlsmere ; only 
 her maid is a great gossip, and told our maid that Lady Blanche 
 had cried incessantly for the last two days, and that she thought 
 there was some fuss between her and Miss Wentworlh ; for 
 that Miss Wentworth had not been near her ! Poor thing I 
 I daresay she is a little wayward.' 
 
 'And to-night you see she has shaken it all off, and comes 
 forward as if nothing was amiss,' said Mrs Cuthbert Grey. 
 ' Well ! one can only feel for her ; but I am glad I am not 
 Lord Rutherford.' 
 
 Miss Grey touched her mother's arm. 
 
 Lord Rutherford had just come into the room, and was ask- 
 ing if any one had seen Blanche. His entrance attracted 
 notice, but he was not aware of it. To one or two persons he 
 bowed distantly and mechanically, but his eye wandered anxiously 
 around ; and a moment afterwards he was gone — to his study 
 — there Blanche was waiting for him. 
 
 A father's love is blind ; yet Lord Rutherford might well 
 have been pardoned if, as he looked upon Blanche dressed for 
 that evening's entertainment, he deemed her faultless. In her 
 simple white dress, almost without ornament, she might have 
 moved amongst the loveliest and the most splendidly attired of 
 her rank and age ; and in her exquisite grace, her perfect un- 
 consciousness of beauty, have outshone them all. The earl 
 could not praise ; he could not even say that he was satisfied. 
 Admiration was not the idea which presented itself in looking 
 upon Blanche. But he imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and 
 blessed her ; and the blessing brought a thrill of untold delight 
 to Blanche's heart. 
 
 'It is so good of you, my child,' he said, ' to wait for me. I 
 thought I should have tired you, and that you would go to the
 
 276 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER, 
 
 drawing-room without me ; but I was kept. Sir Hugh took A 
 fancy, an hour ago, about some of the arrangements, and would in- 
 terfere; and your aunt was quite fretted with him. So, in pity to 
 her, I carried him off to the library to discuss an old quotation. 
 So immensely absurd he is ! But you are not doing too much, 
 I trust ; you look better to-night — a great deal better, I think.' 
 
 Blanche said she did feel more equal to the effort than she 
 had done all day ; and her father did not remark that she 
 avoided saying she was better. 
 
 ' There are a good many arrivals,' continued the earl. ' I 
 looked into the drawing-room a few minutes ago — your aunt 
 seemed quite in her element. I don't know any person who 
 manages a thing of this kind better than she does. But they 
 are all expecting you, Blanche.' 
 
 ' Must we go just this minute ?' she asked. ' It is very quiet 
 and comfortable here.' 
 
 He regarded her with a slight uneasiness. ' You are tired, 
 my love, already. It is too much for you, I believe, after all.' 
 
 ' No, no; ' and Blanche roused herself from the languor which 
 was stealing over her. ' I shall do quite well, indeed ; but 1 
 thought there was no hurry, and I wanted to stay just for a few 
 moments ; I was hoping to hear' 
 
 ' What ? — anything I can ask for you ? — anything I can in- 
 quire ? — let me go.' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Blanche, with a half smile ; ' but I sent just 
 now a message to the lodge. Little Johnnie is taken worse, 
 and I had a great wish to know' — tears started to her eyes, but 
 she added cheerfully, ' one can't help being interested about 
 him.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford made no reply ; but he drew an arm-chair 
 towards her, and Blanche sat down by the fire, and fixed her 
 eyes upon the bright flames, and the strange caverns, and 
 hollows, and precipices of the glowing coals. There was 
 silence for several minutes. Once or twice Blanche looked 
 round, thinking the door was opened ; but no one came. 
 
 ' I hear music,' said the earl, at length : ' they are impatient 
 to dance. Are you sure your message was taken to the lodge ?' 
 
 ' Barnes promised me she would send some one directly,' 
 replied Blanche ; ' but it does not signify ; I can go ; ' and she 
 was about to rise. 
 
 1 We can wait,' said the earl ; ' only' — he took out his watch 
 — ' I think we really must go j it will look so strange.'
 
 THE KARL'S DAUGHTER. 277 
 
 Some one came to the door and tapped gently. 
 
 Lord Rutherford uttered an impatient ' Come in ; ' but it 
 was not a servant that answered him — it was .Maude; very 
 grave — very stiff and cold ; and dressed in a manner but little 
 in accordance with the gaiety of the evening. 
 
 ' They are wondering what is become of you, Blanche,' she 
 said. ' Mamma sent me to find you. She had a fancy that 
 you were not well. But you are well — very well, I declare, after 
 all. Quite a colour there is in your cheeks ; or is it only that 
 you have been burning yourself over the fire ? ' 
 
 There was a colour in Blanche's cheek, for it was crimsoned 
 with the conflicting feelings excited by Maude's accent of 
 sarcasm. 
 
 • We were just saying that it would not do to stay here any 
 longer,' said Lord Rutherford ; ' but Blanche had a fancy to 
 wait till she could hear about a message which she sent to the 
 lodge to inquire after the little boy.' 
 
 ' They can bring it to her in the drawing-room,' said Maude ; 
 ' there is no use in waiting here, and the dancing cannot begin 
 without Blanche.' 
 
 'No no ; thank you,' exclaimed Blanche, and she rose im- 
 mediately. ' I would much rather not have it brought ; it does 
 not signify ; at least 1 would rather not hear. Indeed, I would 
 rather not,' she repeated, as Lord Rutherford was going to ring 
 the bell. Maude stood by coldly, merely saying that every one 
 was expecting Blanche; it was her own evening. 
 
 ' Yes ; I ought to have been in the room. It was wrong of 
 me to wait,' said Blanche. ' I'apa, I am quite ready.' 
 
 She trembled as she stood up ; and he observed it, and laying 
 his hand upon hers, said fondly, ' You are nervous, my child : 
 but you will not care after the first moment.' 
 
 Blanche smiled, and opened the door. A full burst of music 
 sounded from the great hall ; a murmur of many voices — laughter 
 and conversation. 
 
 ' Stop ! here is your messenger, after all,' said the earl. 
 
 A servant was coming hastily along the passage. 
 
 ' May we go back to hear it ? ' asked Blanche. She seemed 
 really agitated now ; it was not mere nervousness. 
 
 ' You have been to the lodge. Tell us quickly,' said the earl. 
 k Lady Blanche is anxious. How is the child ? ' 
 
 A little girl of about twelve years of age stepped forward from 
 behind the servant, and came close up to Blanche. ' I was to
 
 2?3 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 tell, myself,' she said. ' Johnnie said I was. He sent his love 
 to my lady, and he 's gone — he 's gone to the beautiful city, and 
 he begs her to come soon.' And bursting into tears, she sobbed 
 as if her heart would break. 
 
 ' Come,' said Maude, drawing Blanche forwards. ' Poor 
 child ! we cannot help her. Blanche stood still for an instant : 
 the light of a lamp fell full upon her features ; they were of a 
 deadly paleness. ' Come,' again repeated Maude, authorita- 
 tively. 
 
 Blanche started, and turned to look for her father. He was 
 leaning against the wall, at a little distance, with his arms 
 folded. Blanche went up to him, and said gently. ' Papa, I 
 am ready now ; ' but he did not answer, only he caught her 
 hand, and holding it for an instant, looked wildly in her face ; 
 and then dropping it suddenly, walked back to the study, and 
 closed the door. Blanche made no remark ; she stooped to 
 caress the poor little girl, who had thrown herself upon the floor 
 in an agony of grief ; and in a tone of quiet sympathy, spoke a 
 few words of comfort, and gave an order that the servant should 
 take her back to the lodge, and said she hoped to see her 
 mother the following day. Then addressing Maude, she added 
 with perfect composure, ' We had better not wait for papa,' 
 and putting her arm within her cousin's, went with her to the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 Again there was a crimson flush upon Blanche's cheek ; again 
 her eyes shone brightly, and the silvery tones of her voice fell 
 with cheerfulness upon the ear. The evening was wearing on. 
 She had talked and danced, even laughed and sang. It was 
 beautiful to watch her ; beautiful and inspiriting, except when 
 occasionally a passing word seemed to jar upon some inward 
 chord, and then for a moment a look of anguish flitted across 
 her lovely face, and a mist seemed to gather over her eyes, and 
 whether it were in the dance or in conversation, a sudden vague- 
 ness and abstraction would come upon her, and she would pause, 
 as if unknowing where she was, or what she was saying, till 
 recalled by a gay reproof, or a glance at her father's counten- 
 ance. For Lord Rutherford was < himself again ; ' whatever 
 might have been the rush of foreboding excited by that untimely 
 message from the bed of death, it was gone now ; charmed 
 away by the spell of his child's apparent enjoyment, and the 
 proud happiness of beholding the admiration she inspired. 
 
 ' Lord Rutherford must bs satisfied now,' said Lord Erlsmere
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 279 
 
 to Mrs Cuthbcrt Grey. He had been watching Blanche for 
 some time — longer than Mrs Cuthbert Grey approved. 
 
 ' Yes ; satisfied for to-night, at least. But it is not real ; 
 all that cheerfulness, I mean, which poor Lady Blanche puts 
 on. She will suffer for it to-morrow.' 
 
 ' So do many people suffer for a night's excitement. There 
 will be nothing to wonder at in that.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but even now it is forced — evidently forced. I have 
 lived longer than you ; and I have seen more — of young ladies, 
 at least. Look, now ; see what a change there is.' 
 
 There was a change, certainly — a remarkable one. Blanche 
 had been standing at the lower end of the room, talking to hes 
 partner. Now he had left her, and there were several people 
 near her, but no one especially addressing her. Her face was 
 turned away, but Mrs Cuthbert Grey and Lord Erlsmere caught 
 a side view. She had laid her hand upon some one, who was 
 standing in front of her, and was speaking with an eager, hag- 
 gard look of entreaty, which seemed to have changed even the 
 outline of her features. 
 
 ' She is talking to Miss Wentworth,' said Lord Erlsmere. ' I 
 fancied they had quarrelled.' 
 
 ' Yes ; quarrelled I suspect they have ; she is conscious of it 
 probably, and trying to make it up. Those apparently very 
 sweet tempers are not much to be depended on.' 
 
 1 If Lady Blanche Evelyn's temper is not sweet, I must dis- 
 trust the evidence of my senses for the rest of my life,' said 
 Lord Erlsmere, earnestly. 
 
 Mrs Cuthbert Grey smiled expressively. 
 
 ' The quarrel is made up at any rate,' said Lord Erlsmere, as 
 he saw Blanche rise and walk with Eleanor across the room. 
 
 ' Or reserved for a more private explanation,' observed Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey. ' Miss Wentworth is not, I suspect, to be won 
 over so easily.' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere did not pay much attention to this remark — 
 his interest was attracted by Eleanor and Blanche, and to Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey's discomfiture, he made some excuse for going 
 away, and followed them through the door by which they had 
 departed. It led into the hall. A few people were walking up 
 and down, taking refreshments — Adelaide Charlton and Miss 
 Caroline Grey amongst them. Eleanor and Blanche were pass- 
 ing them just as Lord Erlsmere came into the hall. Adelaide 
 tried to stop Blanche, and said something ludicrous, and
 
 2 8o THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Blanche's face for a moment wore an expression of groat 
 annoyance ; but she went on, and Adelaide and her companion 
 laughed only the more heartily. Lord Erlsmere could not see 
 more. A dance had just ended, and persons were crowding 
 into the hall — some to refresh themselves, some to find partners, 
 and Mrs Cuthbert Grey to collect her party and prepare for an 
 early departure. She laid siege to Lord Erlsmere again. 
 
 It was growing very late, she said ; and they had a long drive 
 before them, and arrangements to make — packages, and boxes, 
 and numberless things to collect ; it was such an unnatural 
 undertaking to leave a place where you had been staying in the 
 middle of the night. Would Lord Erlsmere try and find her 
 daughter Agnes ? 
 
 Lord Erlsmere could not but be most happy ; yet he delaved 
 for a moment, with a lingering curiosity, to watch what had be- 
 come of Eleanor and Blanche. 
 
 ' You lost sight of the two friends in this crowd, I imagine,' 
 said Mrs Cuthbert Grey, cleverly reading his thoughts. ' People 
 come and go like meteors. Stay, there are Adelaide and Caro- 
 line ; do bring them to me.' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere crossed the hall and delivered his summons. 
 Adelaide was talking lightly with one of her partners as he came 
 up. 
 
 ' I have orders from Mrs Cuthbert Grey,' began Lord Erls- 
 mere. 
 
 ' Orders ? oh ! yes, to go, I suppose. Caroline ' and 
 
 she looked round for her friend. 
 
 ' Can I be of any service ? can I give any message, or find 
 anything for you ? ' asked Lord Erlsmere. 
 
 ' No, thank you, nothing; nothing at all. We must go; the 
 sooner the better,' she added, with an accent of peculiar melan- 
 choly — almost regret — which Lord Erlsmere, unobservant 
 though he usually was, could not help remarking. 
 
 ' You are to be absent for some time,' he said. ' I shall 
 scarcely have the pleasure of seeing you again, I am afraid.' 
 
 ' Thank you, no ; I think — I believe I am going for some 
 time. Caroline — where is she ? ' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere offered her his arm to lead her to Mrs Cuth- 
 bert Grey. 
 
 ' But, mamma and papa, I must see them ; I must say good- 
 bye to them,' said Adelaide. 
 
 ' There will be sufficient time,' replied Lord Erlsmere, trying
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 2S1 
 
 to check Adelaide's haste by his own steady pace. ' The car- 
 riage is not ordered yet ; you will scarcely get away for the 
 next three-quarters of an hour.' 
 
 Adelaide sighed, and the next moment burst into a tit of 
 laughter, declaring that she was so fearfully tired,, she had 
 nearly lost her senses. 
 
 ' You are not the only tired person, I imagine,' said Lord 
 Krlsmere. ' Your cousin, Lady Blanche, for instance.' 
 
 Adelaide coloured crimson. ' Blanche ! ' she exclaimed ; 
 ' oh ! yes, Blanche is very tired, I believe.' 
 
 • She looked so just now, when I saw her,' continued Lord 
 Krlsmere. ' But I will tell her, if you wish to see her before 
 you go.' 
 
 ' Oh ! no, no, thank you ; ' and Adelaide's manner became 
 even more impetuous. ' I would not trouble her for the world. 
 Besides, she is with Miss Wentworth. It is better she should 
 be with her ; she will only be flurried.' 
 
 1 And you do not wish to see her ; to say good-bye ? ' said 
 Lord Erlsmere, with a little curiosity to know why Blanche was 
 so little of a favourite. 
 
 1 Thank you, I don't care ; it does not signify. They are 
 talking together there, I believe,' and she pointed to a little 
 room which had been occupied by some of the attendants 
 during the evening : ' but I would not disturb her. Please let 
 me go to mamma;' and, hurrying from the hall, she threaded 
 her way amidst the maze of guests, and through various rooms 
 and passages, till they reached the drawing-room. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE little waiting-room, to which Eleanor and Blanche had 
 made their way, was quite deserted. It had been used 
 merely as a temporary convenience, whilst the refreshments 
 were handed about, and there was no fear of interruption in it. 
 But, even if there had been, Blanche was not in a state of mind 
 to have much thought except for the moment. When the door 
 was seen to be open, and the room empty, she entered it as a 
 place of refuge and relief ; and, regardless of Eleanor's warn-
 
 282 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ing that the room was cold, and that it was not fitting for her 
 to remain, exclaimed, ' Now, Eleanor, let me hear.' 
 
 'It is too late,' said Eleanor, moodily. 'Yours is but a 
 mockery of sympathy.' 
 
 ' Pity — have pity,' said Blanche, and she looked pleadingly 
 in Eleanor's face. 
 
 ' I have nothing to tell,' continued Eleanor ; ' at least, 
 nothing but what you may well guess. All things are as they 
 were ; only hastening to their end.' 
 
 ' And is there no hope ? ' asked Blanche. ' Has nothing 
 happened these two long, long days that you have kept away 
 from me ? ' 
 
 ' You are unjust in your reproaches,' said Eleanor. ' What 
 comfort could my visit have been ? You have cast off sym- 
 pathy, and have destroyed the happiness of those as dear to me 
 as my own life.' 
 
 ' Yes, it may be — it may be,' said Blanche, in an accent of 
 utter wretchedness. ' I know you have a right to be angry ; 
 but I thought you would not go on being so.' 
 
 ' It will make but little difference to you, I imagine, whether 
 I do or not,' said Eleanor : ' no one watching you this even- 
 ing' 
 
 ' And are you, too, deceived ? ' interrupted Blanche. ' Thei\ 
 indeed, I can act well.' 
 
 ' There is no cause for acting,' said Eleanor, bitterly. ' Lady 
 Blanche Evelyn, beautiful, prosperous, wealthy, without a single 
 care, — nay, do not stop me ; I am only repeating what I have 
 heard said by fifty persons this night.' 
 
 ' But you shall hear me for myself,' exclaimed Blanche. 
 ' Before you think me so cold, so heartless, you shall judge me 
 from my own lips.' 
 
 ' My own eyes will be the better judges,' replied Eleanor. 
 1 Laughter, and talking, and dancing are sufficient indications 
 of the state of a person's mind.' 
 
 ' And it must be laughter, and talking, and dancing to the 
 end,' said Blanche. ' The end,' she repeated again, thought- 
 fully, ' which may soon be here.' Eleanor looked at her won- 
 deringly, and a feeling of returning love and tenderness stole 
 over her as she saw the sunken eye, and the pale cheek, now 
 no longer bright and flushed with excitement ; but, marked by 
 the undeniable signs of great mental suffering. ' Do you think 
 I could be here to-night ? ' said Blanche, ' if I followed but my
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 283 
 
 own will. With so great a weight upon my mind, could it be 
 my wish to join in such a scene, even though it is in my own 
 honour ? But you have thought for your mother, Eleanor ; 
 and I have thought for my father. He is very unhappy — very 
 anxious ; God knows whether there is cause,' she added, her 
 voice becoming almost sepulchral ; ' but I have felt to-night 
 that there might be.' 
 
 ' He is anxious for your health, I know,' said Eleanor. 
 
 ' Not for my health of body,' replied Blanche ; ' but there is 
 another fear. He thinks I am like — my mother.' She paused 
 for a moment, and continued hurriedly : — ' He tries to hide it ; 
 but I have seen it. I saw it the other day — that day,' and she 
 gasped for breath, 'when we were together. His very eager- 
 ness to please me — I understand it, I know what it means ; 
 and he shall please me ; I will be happy. If I am not," — her 
 voice grew faint — ' he shall never have the misery of knowing 
 it.', 
 
 ' Blanche,' said Eleanor, in a tone of alarm, ' you must not 
 let yourself be excited in this way ; it will do you a great deal 
 of harm. After all, you may be fanciful' 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed Blanche, shuddering ; and coming up 
 close to Eleanor, she added, in a tone of quiet despondency, 
 which made Eleanor forget for the moment that they had ever 
 had a word of difference; 'he told me so himself yesterday. 
 He came to my room, and I was crying, and we talked to- 
 gether, and I made him own it. O Eleanor ! he was so 
 wretched, and so kind — so very, very kind.' 
 
 Eleanor kissed her, and whispered, ' Dearest;' and Blanche, 
 with the tone and manner of a weary child, laid her head upon 
 her shoulder, and said, ' Let me be miserable with you ; with 
 him I must always seem happy.' Several persons at that 
 moment passed the door, and some one was heard to inquire 
 for Mrs Cuthbert Grey's carriage. Blanche started up. ' We 
 must not stay here,' she said. ' Only tell me that you forgive, 
 that you understand me.' 
 
 ' Yes, I will forgive ; that is, I will try to think you meant 
 rightly,' said Eleanor, her own trial returning again to her 
 recollection. ' But you cannot go on in this way, Blanche. No 
 mind could bear the constant effort.' 
 
 Blanche smiled sweetly, but very sadly. She stood for a 
 moment thinking silently, and then her thoughts were uttered 
 aloud, and she said, abruptly, ' Johnnie Foster is dead ; did
 
 2S4 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 they tell you of it ?' Eleanor looked at her in astonishment 
 ' Yes, he is dead,' repeated Blanche, in the same dreamy tone. 
 ' He sent me a message ; we will go and see his mother 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 'Any one here?' inquired a servant, opening the door. He 
 drew back, and apologised. He was looking for Mrs Cuthbert 
 Grey's maid. She was wanted particularly. ' Mrs Cuthbert 
 Grey is going then,' said Eleanor. 
 
 ' Yes, immediately,' was the reply. ' The carriage had been 
 ordered a long time,' and the servant went away. Eleanor 
 sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hands. Blanche 
 walked up and down the room in great agitation. 
 
 ' Fool that I was !' exclaimed Eleanor. ' I might have seen 
 the result from the beginning.' 
 
 ' There is no result yet,' said Blanche, in a voice quite differ- 
 ent from her usual tone. 
 
 Eleanor looked up, sarcastically. ' When a vessel is driven 
 against a rock, there can be but one end.' 
 
 ' How can you be sure ? ' asked Blanche. 
 
 ' How can I doubt, rather?' exclaimed Eleanor, with some- 
 thing of indignation in her manner. ' When Adelaide Charlton 
 takes Caroline Grey into her secrets, and hides them from me, 
 and when Charles has come into the neighbourhood, desperate 
 and full of wild schemes, it is mockery to ask if I am sure. 
 My poor, poor mother !' 
 
 ' It must all be stopped, it must be prevented,' exclaimed 
 Blanche. 
 
 And Eleanor answered, bitterly, ' It could have been.' 
 
 ' Lady Charlton ought to know : at least, she ought to be 
 put on her guard,' said Blanche. 
 
 ' There is nothing to tell,' replied Eleanor, coolly, ' except 
 the engagement. There we are both bound in honour to be 
 silent.' 
 
 A pause ensued. Eleanor rose to go. ' Stop,' said Blanche, 
 detaining her ; ' I cannot see why you should be so miserable 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' Because I am sure there is mischief plotting, and I cannot 
 discover it. But it must come ; it is not my doing ; no, what- 
 ever happens, it is not mine. They never told me. Charles 
 never asked my advice. They have taken their own way, and 
 they must answer for it. Oh, if they had never, never met ! — 
 if I had never sent a message, never encouraged them ! But T
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 2S5 
 
 did not think. I did not suppose what it could come to. My 
 poor mother J ' 
 
 Blanche dared not speak Every word which Eleanor 
 uttered added to her own distress. ' You will come and wish 
 them good-bye, of course/ continued Eleanor. The softness 
 of manner which had stolen over her whilst attempting to com- 
 fort Blanche's grief was now quite gone. 
 
 ' I will wish papa good night and go to bed/ said Blanche ; 
 ' no one will miss me.' 
 
 She looked extremely ill, and Eleanor offered to go with her. 
 ' No, you will be wanted ; you had better find out Adelaide — 
 or Maude ; can't Maude help you ? she knows something.' 
 
 ' She knows they are idiots, and she thinks us hypocrites,' 
 said Eleanor ; ' that is all. For your comfort, she believes you 
 the woi'st of all.' 
 
 ' Me ! — a hypocrite !' and Blanche was for the instant roused 
 from unhappiness to indignation. 
 
 ' She has heard some servant's gossip, and thinks you are in 
 league with me to support Charles, and make him propose to 
 Adelaide/ said Eleanor ; ' but you may bear that share of blame, 
 Blanche. It is little enough, and your conscience will tell you 
 you have not helped us.' 
 
 This last sarcasm was the overflowing drop in poor Blanche's 
 cup of trial. She sat quite motionless, in a kind of stupor. 
 The sound of carriage-wheels had been heard frequently during 
 the conversation. Music was still going on, but many of the 
 guests were departing. Lord Rutherford came along the passage, 
 and Eleanor heard him ask whether Lady Blanche's maid was 
 with her. ' He thinks you are gone to your room/ said Eleanor; 
 ' it is the best place for you.' 
 
 Blanche did not answer. 
 
 ' Perhaps you had better stay here for a few minutes/ pursued 
 Eleanor, ' and I will send your maid to you.' 
 
 Still Blanche remained with her eyes fixed on vacancy, lean- 
 ing back in her chair, and her hands resting helplessly in her 
 lap. 
 
 Eleanor was a little frightened. She thought of what it would 
 be best to do, and supposing Blanche was over-fatigued, said, 
 ' I will go and find Barnes, and wish Adelaide good-bye, and 
 then I will come back.' 
 
 Blanche half smiled in acquiescence^ and Eleanor was satis- 
 fied and left her.
 
 iS6 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Several minutes went by, and Blanche continued in the same 
 confused state of wretchedness and exhaustion. She heard 
 people hurrying to and fro, and voices sounding now at a dis- 
 tance, and now quite near, and she was conscious of being alone, 
 where no one would think of finding her ; where it would be 
 considered strange that she should be ; yet she had no inclina- 
 tion to move. At length the medley of sounds rather died 
 away, the music in the dancing-rooms ceased, and from the 
 frequent repetition of Mrs Cuthbert Grey's name it was evident 
 that at length she was really going. Blanche had an impulse 
 to say good-bye to her and to Adelaide : it seemed as if it would 
 be kind and civil ; and she had a thought — it could not be 
 called a hope, it was so vague — that she might do or say some- 
 thing, or discover something which might help to comfort 
 Eleanor. But it was all dreamy and misty, and when she stood 
 up, her head swam, and her eyes were dim, and it was an effort 
 to her to make up her mind what she was to do. She re- 
 mained at the door debating with herself whether it would not 
 be better after all to go to bed. She had never felt so ill and 
 strange before, but there were persons talking in the passage, 
 and she had a dread of meeting any one, so she stood still till 
 they should be gone. They did not, however, seem inclined to 
 go ; they were talking rather eagerly, but in an under-tone. 
 They might be Adelaide and Miss Caroline Grey, for Blanche 
 caught a few words about a cloak, and mamma, and looking in 
 the little room, and then something else was said about forget - 
 fulness, and one of them — the voice was very like Adelaide's- — 
 observed, ' It won't do to be forgetful now ; if one is careless 
 for the rest of one's life.' ' No ; ' and there was a laugh. 
 
 ' We must both have our presence of mind about us cer- 
 tainly to-day and to-morrow, and then. — ' Yes, then ' — a sigh 
 followed. 
 
 ' Nay, you must not begin to sigh yet,' was the rejoinder. 
 1 There will be time enough for that when the mischief is done ; 
 but, really, I don't think there is the least cause for sighing.' 
 
 Blanche went back into the waiting-room, for she felt that she 
 had better not hear more. Immediately afterwards Adelaide 
 and Caroline looked into the room, glanced round without 
 seeing Blanche, who was behind the door, and seeing no trace 
 of the missing cloak, were going away. 
 
 ' Miss Adelaide Charlton's cloak to-night,' said Caroline 
 Grey, in a half-whisper. ' Mrs Charles Wentworth's on Thurs-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 287 
 
 day. Fancy how absurd, and for mamma and Agnes to be so 
 very amiable — to leave us just at the very moment we wish to 
 be left.' 
 
 Blanche started, almost exclaimed, and stepped forward to 
 show herself; but the rustling of her dress alarmed the two 
 friends, and they rushed away laughing nervously. Blanche 
 stood motionless, disgust and fear struggling in her breast. 
 The next impulse was to follow Adelaide, and implore lier 
 to give up her schemes. Excitement caused a momentary 
 energy both of body and mind, and she hurried through the 
 passage and entered the hall, which was empty. There she 
 paused to consider what was next to be done, for she heard 
 Adelaide's voice in an adjoining room, where several people 
 were talking. She sat down on a bench. 
 
 Eleanor came into the hall, and Blanche beckoned to her to 
 come near, and said, ' I think I know it all now. They have a 
 plan for to-morrow, or the day after, when Mrs Cuthbert Grey 
 and Agnes will be out. Can that be possible ? ' 
 
 Eleanor turned quite white. ' How did you know it? So 
 soon ! Yes, it may be. O Blanche ! Blanche !' 
 
 ' I will stop it,' said Blanche, in a hollow voice. 
 
 1 How?' 
 
 ' 1 will see Adelaide.' 
 
 ' But she is gone.' 
 
 ' No, not gone ; only going. — Hark ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, she is there ; but there is not time ; and she is wilful 
 beyond imagination.' 
 
 ' Then my aunt ' 
 
 ' No, no, we cannot ; indeed we cannot betray them.' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said Mrs Cuthbert Grey, approaching the hall. 
 • The carriage is at the side entrance below, I think you said.' 
 
 1 Yes,' replied Lady Charlton, who was following behind her : 
 ' it was more convenient for the luggage. You will not mind 
 our passages, I hope; they are all well warmed.' 
 
 They moved on, accompanied by Agnes and Caroline Grey, 
 and Adelaide. Two or three gentlemen were with them, but 
 not Lord Erlsmere. 
 
 ' I must go with them,' said Eleanor. ' Will you come too?' 
 
 Blanche made a faint effort to move. 
 
 ' No ; you had better remain,' continued Eleanor, watching her 
 
 But Blanche stood up, and said, ' I will speak to Adelaide.' 
 
 ' Now ? Impossible ! '
 
 2 S3 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' But I must — I must,' repeated Blanche, vehemently. ' If 
 she knows that I know, it must frighten her.' 
 
 ' Probably it might, if there had been time ; but it is too late,' 
 and without waiting for Blanche's reply, Eleanor hastened to 
 follow Mrs Cuthbert Grey. 
 
 Blanche delayed for an instant to consider ; but the instant 
 seemed a year. The voices and footsteps grew fainter along 
 the passages, and as they died away she became desperate, 
 and, resolved to warn Adelaide at all hazards, rushed from the 
 hall, as fast as her failing strength would allow, towards the 
 side entrance. 
 
 She was met by Lord Erlsmere at the top of the staircase 
 which led to the lower part of the house. ' Lady Blanche ! — - 
 here alone ! I thought you were ill. I thought you had re- 
 tired long since,' he exclaimed. 
 
 Blanche only shook her head, and, without an answer, would 
 have hurried on. The light of a lamp fell upon her features ; 
 their expression was wild and ghastly, and Lord Erlsmere, put- 
 ting himself before her, said. ' Excuse me ; something very 
 much is the matter ; you are ill.' 
 
 ' 111 ? yes, very,' and Blanche tried to pass him, saying, 
 eagerly, ' They will be gone ; I must see them : will no one 
 tell them to stop ? ' 
 
 ' Mrs Cuthbert's Grey's party, you mean,' said Lord Erls- 
 mere, looking at her steadily. 
 
 ' Yes, Adelaide ; I must see her ; I must go to her.' 
 
 ' But not by yourself, in the cold. Pray, wrap a shawl round 
 you, or let me take a message.' 
 
 ' No ; I must go myself — no one but myself,' exclaimed 
 Blanche, more agitated than before. ' There is not a moment 
 to lose.' 
 
 She was growing very faint, and Lord Erlsmere saw that her 
 steps tottered. ' You must take my arm,' he said ; and Blanche 
 did as she was told, for she could scarcely stand alone. 
 
 ' Come, come,' she said, and she tried to draw him forward ; 
 and, as she spoke, Mrs Cuthbert Grey's warning flashed upon 
 his mind with horror. They reached the foot of the stairs ; a 
 cold draught rushed along the passage from the side entrance. 
 
 ' This is death to you,' exclaimed Lord Erlsmere; but 
 Blanche laughed faintly, and said in a strange voice — 
 
 ' Did you hear them ? they are there ; they are not gone.' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere stopped at an open door. ' This way,' he
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 289 
 
 said ; ' this is the best way,' and Blanche mechanically fol- 
 lowed him, and entered a small room. 
 
 ' You must wait here,' said Lord Erlsmere, assuming a tone 
 of authority. ' I will not take you into the night air.' 
 
 Blanche sank upon a chair, and clasping her hands, ex- 
 claimed — ' Fetch her \ fetch Adelaide. Beg her to come. 
 God grant she may listen.' 
 
 Lord Erlsmere paused, irresolutely. ' If you would be calm,' 
 he began, gravely; ' and could tell me your message.' 
 
 ' Bring her to me, — only let me speak to her ; only bring 
 her. Have you no mercy V 
 
 Lord Erlsmere moved slowly to the door ; opened it and 
 listened. There was a confused sound of voices ; then a 
 momentary lull, and then the quick rattle of carriage-wheels. 
 
 ' They are gone,' said Lord Erlsmere quietly, and in a tone 
 of relief. 
 
 A fearful change passed over Blanche's face, and as blood 
 gushed from her mouth, she sank down apparently lifeless. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 TWO days after the ball ! It was growing dusk ; the bell had 
 been rung for candles in the drawing-room. Lady Charl- 
 ton rang, not for herself, but for Sir Hugh. She was with him 
 alone. All the visitors were gone. Maude was sitting in 
 Blanche's room, whilst Lord Rutherford was trying to sleep. 
 One might have heard every footstep in the house, as the 
 servants moved cautiously through the long passages ; their 
 slow tread in the distance, the one only sound disturbing the 
 general stillness. It was very oppressive — very deathlike ; and 
 when the footman brought a small lamp, only just sufficient for 
 Sir Hugh at his table, no fault was found. The dim light at 
 the extremity of the large drawing-room seemed all that could 
 be needed that evening. 
 
 ' Or Lawson gone i ' inquired Sir Hugh, looking up. 
 
 ' Yes ; a quarter of an hour ago. She has been asleep 
 since.' 
 
 ' Asleep, has she ? She will do very well then. She will get 
 over it. I always thought so. These sudden attacks are just 
 
 T
 
 290 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Mice what I used to have when I was a boy. Much more 
 dangerous, indeed, mine were. I used to lie for hours ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; I remember/ began Lady Charlton. 
 
 ' No, my dear, begging your pardon, you can't remember, for 
 you did not know me. I was going to tell you about them.' 
 
 ' You had better not move to your own room before dinner, 
 Sir Hugh,' interrupted Lady Charlton. ' Let Pearson settle you 
 here ; though, certainly, this room is dreadfully cold. I shall go 
 up-stairs, and see how things are going on there. You wanted to 
 read this, didn't you?' she added, opening abookwithuncutleaves. 
 
 Sir Hugh seized it eagerly, — ' The very thing ! Where did 
 it come from ? ; 
 
 ' Mr Johnstone sent it yesterday by the fly which took Miss 
 Wentworth away.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, to be sure. Johnstone and I were to have had a 
 discussion upon it ; and Rutherford, too. Poor fellow ! Weil ! 
 I suppose we must wait ; but she will get over it ; there is no 
 question about it. She is not half so ill as I was ; and I don't 
 see myself why every one should have left us in such a hurry, 
 Miss Wentworth especially. A very fine girl she is ; she looked 
 beautiful the other night.' 
 
 ' Miss Wentworth went of her own accord,' said Lady Charl- 
 ton ; muttering in an under-tone, as she went away, ' the only 
 symptom of good taste I have seen in her.' 
 
 Sir Hugh finding himself without a listener, betook himself 
 to his book, and soon afterwards, being persuaded by the dis- 
 creet Pearson that the library was the best place for him on 
 such a cold evening, retired, and left the drawing-room fire for 
 his wife, whenever she chose to return to it. 
 
 Lady Charlton walked up-stairs quietly, moved quickly along 
 the gallery, opened the door of Blanche's room noiselessly, but 
 still with energy ; and looking around her as she entered, saw 
 at one glance all that had been done, or was wanting to be 
 done. It was little enough, but it was sufficient to occupy her 
 for several minutes in giving whispered orders to the maid, and 
 mute suggestions to Maude ; and then she went and stood by 
 the bedside, and looked upon Blanche's pallid face, now calmed 
 by the half-repose of exhaustion. She was not a person in 
 general to show much feeling ; sometimes, it was said, that she 
 had none ; but this was an injustice. Perhaps the most unsel- 
 fish of all her affections was that which centred in her niece, 
 and no one could have seen Blanche then, and thought of the
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 291 
 
 intensity of happiness or misery that depended upon her life, 
 without deep emotion. 
 
 Whilst Lady Charlton was still in the room, Lord Rutherford 
 came in and stood by her. Tears had stolen down her cheek, 
 almost unconsciously, before ; but now she took her handker- 
 chief and turned her face to the light, and whispered, with a 
 look of sympathy, ' Poor child ! we must be thankful she can 
 sleep. Maude tells me she has been very quiet for the last hour.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Lord Rutherford, shortly ; and he moved away 
 without even going to look at Blanche, and sat down in an arm- 
 chair by the fire. 
 
 Maude left her seat, and pointed to her mother to occupy it ; 
 but Lady Charlton could not sit and watch, except at night, when 
 she was exerting herself to do what no one else was equal to. 
 Her tears were gone now, and she was as before, full of busi- 
 ness, obliged to go and see about a hundred things ; and after 
 another compassionate glance at Blanche, she whispered to 
 Maude to let the maid take her place when she came down to 
 dinner, and departed. 
 
 Lord Rutherford and Maude were fit company for each other. 
 They had no wish for sympathy. It might be that each felt 
 there were depths of suffering, which no comfort, no comfort at 
 least which they knew, could reach. Into the causes of a father's 
 grief there is no need to search. They who have loved as Lord 
 Rutherford loved — who have staked their last hope of happi- 
 ness upon an earthly idol, and feel that they may be about to 
 lose it, can alone tell the anguish of that awful suspense between 
 life and death which language may not venture to describe. 
 
 But Maude had no life-long interests at stake. Whether 
 Blanche lived or died, she had yet home, youth, talents, friends, 
 and many of the allurements of the world, to brighten her 
 prospect of the future. Yet there were feelings, selfish, per- 
 haps, in some respects, but bitter and uncontrollable, which 
 made the weary hours of that evening so desolate, that Maude 
 would almost have been contented to exchange them for the 
 earl's keen sorrow. 
 
 There is excitement in some griefs ; we struggle with them 
 manfully ; the world's sympathy is with us, and we either con- 
 quer or die. There is hopeless monotony in others, and we 
 bear them day after day, beneath a calm exterior ; and years of 
 endurance go by, and they are buried with us in our graves, and 
 none saicss the secret of their existence.
 
 292 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Maude had never experienced a bitter grief ; her natural tem- 
 perament was not open to it. She had never loved deeply, for 
 she was slow to excite, and cautious, and criticising even when 
 excited. There was within her a capacity of strong affection, 
 but it had never been called forth. She did not think now that 
 Blanche was going to die ; but if she had thought so, it would 
 scarcely have made her more desolate, for hers was the desola- 
 tion of the mind as well as of the heart ; the feverish, parched, 
 dryness and barrenness of a spirit, which is for ever longing to 
 rest upon some oasis of beauty and truth in the desert of life, 
 and when it thinks that it has found the object of its desires, 
 discovers that it has trusted to delusion. Maude had often 
 been disappointed before she knew Blanche. She had often 
 imagined perfection, and found imperfection ; imagined truth, 
 and discovered falsehood : and she had said to herself that she 
 would never trust again, yet she had trusted — unconsciously : 
 she. had watched the light of Blanche's example, until some- 
 thing of clearness had spread itself over the darkness of her 
 own mind ; and the path of duty, and the way of truth, had 
 opened themselves, though indistinctly, before her. But it was 
 all dim now, all gloomy and doubtful as before. The light had 
 been extinguished, for the thought of Blanche was mixed up 
 with schemes and deceptions, irresolution and inconsistency ; 
 and Maude could better have borne a great offence, than a 
 weakness which diminished her reverence. 
 
 What Eleanor, and Adelaide, and Mr Wentworth might be 
 doing or planning, she scarcely considered, except as she be- 
 lieved them to be associated with Blanche. It was for her 
 that she had been anxious and suspicious, and it was for her 
 that she now grieved, as over one who had consented to take 
 part in conduct unworthy of her education and her principles. 
 The occurrences of the last few days, Blanche's wretchedness 
 and disquietude, her uneasiness respecting the disposal of the 
 living, and the reserve she had strictly maintained as to the 
 cause of her distress afterwards, had convinced Maude that, in 
 some way — how she did not know, and could not inquire — 
 Blanche had, notwithstanding the warning given her, fallen into 
 the snare prepared for her, and was pledged to exert her influ- 
 ence in Mr Wentworth's favour. More than this she did not 
 guess, but it was sufficient to make her feel that her trust in 
 Blanche's stability of character was ai; an end ; and to throw 
 her back upon her own desponding doubts, whether any real
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 293 
 
 firmness and goodness were to be found on earth : and now she 
 sat by the fire in the dusky twilight, thinking of Blanche, and 
 knowing that she was very ill, and that even if she recovered 
 this present attack, its consequences might eventually be fatal, 
 yet not able to rouse herself to any feeling but that of gloomy 
 depression at her own dreariness of heart. 
 
 It was a time when a person of a different character might 
 have been roused to exertion, in the hope of putting a stop to 
 anything amiss as regarded Adelaide; but Maude was a theorist. 
 From the height of her philosophy she looked down upon Adel- 
 aide and Eleanor with contempt ; and, if occasion required, she 
 could have discoursed eloquently upon the indulged faults which 
 led to the conduct she condemned ; but it was not in her way 
 vO interfere with what she called other people's affairs, unless, 
 as in the case of Blanche, urged by some peculiar personal in- 
 terest. Silly persons would be silly, she knew, in spite of all 
 she could say or do, and it was one of her favourite, comfort- 
 ing sayings, that the world must go its own way, and she must 
 go hers ; and in this spirit of indifferentism, she abstained from 
 inquiring minutely into what was passing about her, contented 
 with knowing that it was folly, and therefore beneath her notice. 
 But we cannot thus cut ourselves off from our fellow-creatmres ; 
 the members of one family, especially, cannot do so. By the 
 inevitable decree of Providence, the sin of one will be felt in its 
 punishment by the others ; and woe be to us if, whilst evil is 
 working around us, we passively fold our hands and close our 
 eyes, and say, it docs not concern us. 
 
 There was one fact, however, which gave Maude great relief 
 — Eleanor Wentworth was gone. She had left Senilhurst to 
 return to Mr Johnstone's, the previous day, upon the pretext of 
 fearing to be in the way when every one was so anxious about 
 Blanche. Maude smiled to herself at the apparent coldness of 
 heart which could allow her to go at such a moment ; but she 
 .v^as only too well pleased to be saved from the annoyance of 
 her presence ; and poor Eleanor departed with a weight upon 
 her heart, which Maude, proud and unsympathising though 
 she was, could scarcely have forborne to pity, if she had 
 known it. 
 
 Lord Rutherford and Maude sat together for nearly half an 
 hour without speaking or moving. Then Blanche roused her- 
 self and seemed a little refreshed ; but it was an effort to her 
 to say anything. Maude took out her watch and pointed to
 
 294 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 the hour hand, and observed to Lord Rutherford that it was 
 dinner-time. 
 
 ' Is it ? ' was the answer. 
 
 ' Yes ; I will send Barnes to take our place.' She waited 
 for him to assent, but he did not seem to hear her, and she 
 could not speak to him again. There was something in his 
 face which repelled her. Maude looked round to see that 
 everything was comfortable ; she was a good nurse ; continued 
 ill health had taught her what illness requires ; but perhaps she 
 was a little fidgety ; at least Lord Rutherford seemed to think 
 so, for his eye followed her impatiently, as she went about the 
 room. 
 
 ' Then Barnes will come/ she ventured to say, as she was 
 going away. 
 
 ' I will send for her when I want her,' was his reply ; he 
 followed her to the door, closed it behind her, and returned to 
 stand by Blanche's bed. Their eyes met, but his were turned 
 away in an instant ; she was lying uncomfortably, and he raised 
 her, and placed her pillows right, and smoothed the coverlid, 
 and moved the lamp ; and afterwards poured out her medicine 
 slowly, lingering over the action, and doing everything with a 
 curious precision. When it was all finished, he brought his 
 chair near to sit down ; but that was a great effort, and he 
 could not bear it, and leaning his head against the side of the 
 bed, he cried. 
 
 Barnes looked into the room to know if he was coming down 
 to dinner. 
 
 ' No,' he answered, at first ; but Blanche made a little move- 
 ment with her hand, as if begging him to go. He stooped 
 down and kissed her, and said he would rather not, he was 
 better with her. 
 
 But she whispered, ' Please,' and her soft eyes were fixed on 
 him entreatingly ; and submissively, without another word, he 
 went down-stairs. 
 
 They were but a small gloomy party in the large dining- 
 room ; Sir Hugh prosed, and Lady Charlton found fault ; and 
 Maude wrapped a shawl round her, and complairfed bitterly of 
 the cold ; and the solemn men-servants moved round and 
 round the table, offering dishes which scarcely any one but Sir 
 Hugh tasted. Lord Rutherford ate nothing, though he took 
 care to place enough on his plate to avoid the notice of Sir 
 Hugh, who not only made a point of eating a good dinner him-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 295 
 
 self, but considered it incumbent on his guests, as a matter of 
 civility, to do the same. 
 
 ' I am glad to hear your patient is improving,' he said to 
 Lord Rutherford, as the interval between the first and second 
 courses allowed him to turn his attention to something besides 
 fish and soup. ' I have no doubt myself that it will all come 
 right, and I have had a good deal of experience in such matters 
 The fact is, young people will be imprudent. We ought to have 
 shut her up the night of the party.' 
 
 ' I urged it,' said Lady Charlton, with some bitterness, ' but 
 no one would listen to me. Some people are destined to be 
 Cassandras.' 
 
 ' Blanche came down-stairs because she was told she might/ 
 said Lord Rutherford. The tone made even Sir Hugh feel that 
 the subject had better be dropped. He turned to another part 
 of the same topic — to introduce a new one was not easy. 
 
 He had been trying, he said, to reckon the numbers of the 
 party exactly ; but he was puzzled. Lady Charlton had for- 
 gotten to give him the answers to the invitations. Would Lord 
 Rutherford help him to recollect ? 
 
 The earl groaned audibly ; and Maude came to his relief and 
 said, ' They might make a list after dinner.' 
 
 ' We were one gentleman short,' said Sir Hugh ; ' it was 
 very provoking. I meant to have had a secret — a surprise ; 
 nothing so pleasant on these occasions as a surprise.' 
 
 Lady Charlton drew herself up, and her eyes sparkled ; but 
 she managed to say very gently, that she was not fond of secrets 
 in general, and she supposed this could not be a very important 
 one. 
 
 ' Why not ? — my dear ! — why not ? — why am I not to have 
 important secrets ; or rather, who has ever had so many as 
 myself ? When the late premier — he was my great friend — - 
 you remember,' added Sir Hugh, appealing to Lord Ruther- 
 ford, ' when the late premier came ' — a dish was placed 
 before Sir Hugh — and the late premier was deferred for the 
 moment. 
 
 ' We shall hear from Adelaide to-morrow, I suppose,' said 
 Lady Charlton, hoping to get the conversation, if such it could 
 be called, into her own hands. ' I shall be glad to hear what 
 she is doing at Oakfield. A first visit is always rather a trial.' 
 
 ' They must make up a very pleasant society at Oakfield,' 
 observed Sir Hugh. ' I don't know anywhere a more agree-
 
 296 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 able, sensible woman than Mrs Cuthbert Grey ; and very fine 
 girls her daughters are. They, and their neighbours the John- 
 stones, and Mr Wentworth ' He paused and looked round 
 
 him significantly. 
 
 ' Miss Wentworth, you mean,' said Maude. 
 
 ' No, my dear, excuse me ; I know my own words — Mr 
 Wentworth. Mrs Cuthbert Grey, Mr and Mrs Johnstone, and 
 Miss and Mr Wentworth will form a very agreeable society.' 
 
 Maude involuntarily glanced at her mother. Lady Charlton's 
 lips turned very white. She poured out a glass of water, and 
 drank it quickly. No one spoke for some moments. 
 
 Then Lady Charlton said, slowly, ' You did not think it 
 necessary to tell me that Mr Wentworth was to be in the 
 neighbourhood.' 
 
 ' No, my dear ; no certainly, Frances, my love,' began Sir 
 Hugh, in a frightened tone, and his eyes glanced up and down 
 quickly from his plate to his wife's face. ' A little secret — ■ 
 nothing but a little secret— every one likes a little secret. 
 Johnstone told me the other day, that young Wentworth was 
 coming, before very long, to fetch his sister home ; and I gave 
 him — that is, I said if he happened — if he should just chance 
 to arrive before the 29th, he was to send him over. A young 
 man is always an acquisition — always welcome on such occa- 
 sions. In fact,' and growing bolder as he went on, his tone 
 became rather that of defiance, ' in fact, it was my wish — 1 
 thought it a compliment due ; old friends, you know, and his 
 sister here, and in fact — in fact — but he did not come, my 
 dear. So there is no harm done.' 
 
 ' It is not a matter of much consequence, I suppose,' said 
 Lord Rutherford, drily, and not raising his eyes to see the ex- 
 pression of the different faces. In that he was very unlike 
 Lady Charlton. She could see in all directions, one might 
 almost say, at once. Now, she saw opposite to her the twink- 
 ling intelligent eyes of one of the servants ; the effect was that 
 she replied, with an air of nonchalance, ' Of course not. The 
 coming or going of a young man like Mr Wentworth can be of 
 no consequence to any one.' 
 
 It was provoking and humiliating to see the footman bite hia 
 lips to suppress a smile. Lady Charlton could have found it ir. 
 her heart to order him out of the room. 
 
 ' Hark ! there is a ring at the bell,' said Lord Ruther- 
 ford. ' It must be Dr Lawson come again.' He pushed
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 297 
 
 nside liis plate, and, without the thought of an apology, hurried 
 away. 
 
 ' It is not Dr Lawson,' observed Maude. ' He said lie 
 should not be here till to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Some parcel or message from Cobham, I suppose,' remarked 
 Lady Charlton. ' I wonder people can't find their way to the 
 side entrance.' 
 
 ' I intend to make a fuss about it, my dear,' said Sir Hugh. 
 ' It is a great deal too bad — an infringement upon private rights. 
 I shall take some steps the very first opportunity. You may 
 depend upon it, my dear, it shall be prevented. Let the Cob- 
 ham people know,' he added, speaking to the servant, ' that if 
 they continue to come to the hall door, I will — I will — I vow I 
 will see what can be done to prevent them.' 
 
 • It was not from Cobham, Sir Hugh,' said the footman re- 
 spectfully, yet with a very meaning curl of the lip. ' I heard 
 the horse come up the other road.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford returned, hurried and disappointed. There 
 was no Dr Lawson, but some message ; he did not know what. 
 He sat down again at the table. A silence of expectation 
 followed. 
 
 ' They are a long time bringing the message/ said Lady 
 Charlton. ' Foster, go and see what is the reason.' 
 
 Foster went to the door, and as he opened it received a note, 
 just come, brought from Oakfield. 
 
 ' From Oakfield ? ' said Lady Charlton, a little anxiously. 
 ' So late ! nothing amiss, I hope.' 
 
 The note was taken to Maude. It was strange — generally 
 self-possessed as she was — her hand quite trembled when she 
 took it up. 
 
 ' To ask how Blanche is, I suppose,' said Lady Charlton. 
 ' I daresay they were anxious, and did not like to wait till to. 
 morrow.' 
 
 The seal was broken. Lady Charlton looked at the envelope. 
 The feelings of a mother, usually so dormant within her, were 
 awakened by a vague foreboding. ' That idle child ; how badly 
 she writes ! What does she say of herself, Maude ? ' 
 
 Maude looked up wildly. 
 
 ' What does she say of herself, Maude ? What is it ? ' 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 Lady Charlton caught the note from her daughter's hand. 
 
 Maude started. ' Mamma, pray wait one moment.'
 
 298 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 It was too late. Lady Charlton's eye had fallen upon the 
 signature — Adelaide Wentworth, and she sank back almost un* 
 conscious. 
 
 Maude tossed the note to Sir Hugh, motioned the servants 
 from the room, and turning to Lord Rutherford, said, as she 
 went to her mother's assistance, ' She is married ! She is 
 Adelaide Wentworth ! God forgive her ! ' 
 
 Sir Hugh held the note in his hand, vainly trying to read it. 
 ' Adelaide what, my dear ? Adelaide who ? What is the 
 matter ? What has happened ? ' 
 
 ' Let me go to him/ said Maude to Lord Rutherford, giving 
 a glass of water into his hand. ' Mamma will be better in a 
 minute. It is a note from Adelaide, sir/ she said, speaking to 
 Sir Hugh ; ' she has been doing extremely wrong. She ought 
 to be ashamed of herself.' 
 
 ' But what has she been doing ? What does she mean ? 
 Why does she call herself Adelaide Wentworth ? Read the 
 note — let me hear it.' 
 
 ' It is very short, and I can't make it all out/ replied Maude, 
 muttering to herself. ' She thinks I shall help her. Intense, 
 unutterable folly ! The note is not worth reading/ she said 
 aloud ; ' but she is married, sir — that is what it is ; married to 
 Mr Wentworth. She is Mrs Wentworth.' 
 
 Sir Hugh caught up the note again, raised himself with diffi- 
 culty from his chair, drew the lamp towards him, and began 
 stumbling through it : — 
 
 ' My Dear Maude, — I write in immense haste. You will 
 be shocked, of course ; but there was nothing else to be done, 
 and no good in delay. You will break it to mamma. Papa, I 
 hope and believe, will feel with me. You must try and under- 
 stand this, for we trust to you to help us. We were married 
 this morning, and are just starting for London. Make mamma 
 forgive me, or I shall be miserable. — Yours affectionately, 
 
 ' Adelaide Wentworth.' 
 
 Sir Hugh threw the note from him, with a fearful exclama- 
 tion of anger. 'Feel with them ! I feel with them ! Run- 
 aways ! outcasts ! Young Wentworth ! Scoundrel ! They 
 shall never darken these doors — never ! They shall never have 
 a farthing from me. Write to them, Maude, and tell them. I 
 feel with them, indeed ! I vow your mother was right. Impu-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 299 
 
 dent scamp ! my son-in-law ! marry my daughter ! marry into 
 our family ! and that woman ! that Mrs Cuthbert Grey ! ' 
 
 Maude had returned to her mother, who was slowly recover- 
 ing ; but as she heard the last words, she picked up the note 
 from the floor, and showing the postscript said, ' Mrs Cuthbert 
 Grey is not to blame : that is her writing — " I cannot attempt 
 to comfort or excuse now ; only believe that it was entirely 
 without my knowledge. — A. G." I believe that,' continued 
 Maude, speaking to Lord Rutherford. ' For example's sake she 
 would have been ashamed ; but some one must have known it.' 
 
 ' The pleasant details will come to-morrow,' replied the earl. 
 ' It is a perfect mystery to me ; I can't believe it ! ' 
 
 * Poor mamma can't believe it either,' said Maude, as Lady 
 Charlton opened her eyes, and looked round her inquiringly. 
 
 Sir Hugh managed to hobble to the other side of the table. 
 ' Take her to bed/ he said, almost tenderly. ' There is no 
 place like bed ; let her go to sleep. Poor thing ! poor thing ! 
 It is a horrid blow — most unexpected. Ring for some one, 
 Maude, to help her up-stairs;' adding, as he bent down and 
 actually kissed her, ' we will talk of it to-morrow, my dear ; 
 but you had better go to bed. I shall write to them, and tell 
 them they need not expect anything from me.' 
 
 ' Yes, my own room. Let me go, Maude,' said Lady Charl- 
 ton, faintly ; and, whilst the bitterness of returning recollection 
 rushed upon her as a flood, yet striving to keep up a proud 
 composure. ' Only let me never hear her name again ; she 
 has disgraced it.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 A SAD and trying week went by at Senilhurst. Every one 
 knows that the first moment of a great shock is not the 
 worst ; and the blow inflicted by Adelaide Charlton's marriage 
 was no exception to the rule. It was not indeed one of those 
 events which could be justly called a misfortune, by persons 
 who regarded it in a worldly point of view. Mr Wentworth was 
 a gentleman by birth and education, and if he had no money 
 himself, Sir Hugh was quite rich enough to assist him. He 
 was also a person of unstained reputation, and, except in
 
 300 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 this one act of his marriage, of supposed high principle. 
 Adelaide might undoubtedly have done worse. After all her 
 levity and flirting, she might consider herself fortunate in not 
 having been led into a much more undesirable engagement. 
 This was what the world said ; and in consequence it gave 
 Lady Charlton but a small portion of commiseration. But 
 Lady Charlton herself did not view the subject in the same 
 light. Her pride was wounded,, and not in one point only. 
 Family and fortune were inestimable advantages in the eyes of 
 the world, and for them she would have sacrificed her daughter's 
 happiness, and thought she was but consulting her best interests. 
 But character, propriety — that indescribable delicacy and dignity 
 which act as a shield from public remark— were scarcely less 
 precious, because they were valued by those whose good opinion 
 she was alwavs seeking — the wise and good. It was their cen- 
 sure which Lady Charlton had dreaded when Adelaide flirted, 
 and it was their censure which she feared now. A daughter's 
 fault must in a measure recoil upon the mother who has had 
 the charge of her education ; and bitterly now did she repent 
 the carelessness and blindness which had induced her to bring 
 Adelaide very early into society, and give her almost unchecked 
 freedom of thought and action. But it was for herself that 
 Lady Charlton repented, not for her daughter. It was for the 
 loss of her own position — her character as an excellent adviser 
 and a sensible guardian and friend. No one would henceforth 
 appeal to her as a person whose cleverness, and judgment, and 
 experience, gave value to hei opinion upon education. One 
 who had evidently made some great mistake in the training of 
 her own child could not be competent to counsel others. Lady 
 Charlton felt lowered. That is a feeling hard to bear — insup- 
 portable, except when we can carry it in humility to our Maker, 
 and own it as our just meed and punishment. Lady Charlton 
 could not do this. She struggled against it, and resolved to 
 conquer it. No one should say that deception and imprudence, 
 and the absence of womanly dignity, were sanctioned by Lady 
 Charlton. As Adelaide's conduct was the subject of genera' 
 remark, so also should be her mother's displeasuie. Mr and 
 Mrs Charles Wentworth might go their own way, and follow 
 their own course ; but they should not be admitted at Senil- 
 hurst. And Lady Charlton, as she made the determination, 
 smiled scornfully, in the conscious stateliness of virtuous indig 
 nation.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 301 
 
 The worst was over then ; since for once, almost the first 
 time since their marriage, Sir Hugh and herself were agreed. 
 
 Both Adelaide and Charles had made a great mistake in 
 supposing that Sir Hugh would support their cause against all 
 opposition, if once they were married. Sir Hugh was a vain 
 man. Vain persons will do anything to assist those who choose 
 to consult and natter them, but they will almost infallibly turn 
 against those who choose to act without them. Sir Hugh's 
 vanity was as much piqued by Mr Wentworth's neglect, as 
 Lady Charlton's pride was by Adelaide's imprudence ; and the 
 mortification found its solace in the same revenge. 
 
 A short note was sent to Adelaide, telling her that since she 
 had chosen a companion for life, for herself, she must for the 
 future look to him and to him alone, as her parents did not feel 
 it consistent with their sense of right to sanction her conduct 
 by receiving her at Senilhurst ; and then Sir Hugh and Lady 
 Charlton felt themselves at liberty to announce their sentiments 
 publicly, and hold themselves up to admiration as martyrs to 
 the cause of filial obedience and propriety. 
 
 All this appeared very inconsistent to Maude, and was of 
 very little consequence to Lord Rutherford. In the eyes of 
 Maude, Adelaide's foolish marriage was but the natural end 
 of her previous foolish conduct. After the first moment, she 
 almost wondered at herself for being startled at it. It was 
 extremely wrong, disobedient, and selfish ; but, to her own 
 knowledge, Adelaide had never been taught to be anything else. 
 Her principles were the principles of the world ; and Maude, 
 keen-sighted and cool-judging, had long since discovered that 
 it was in these they had both been nurtured from infancy. 
 Lady Charlton might talk, and seemingly act religiously ; she 
 might praise daily services, give money to build churches, teach 
 in parish schools, cultivate the acquaintance of men distinguished 
 for learning and piety ; but the stamp of the world was upon 
 all. 
 
 Lady Charlton liked popularity ; Adelaide liked admiration. 
 Lady Charlton talked gravely, and believed she should be 
 thought serious-minded ; and Adelaide laughed and chattered, 
 and supposed she should be considered clever. Lady Charlton 
 put a cross upon her prayer-book, because it was the fashion ; 
 Adelaide put an ornament upon her dress from the same motive. 
 Lady Charlton went to church ; Adelaide went to balls. Lady 
 Charlton liked the occupation, and the attendant excitements,
 
 302 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 and the food for conversation, and the consciousness of being 
 noticed ; Adelaide liked the same. 
 
 Where was the difference between them ? Maude could not 
 see it. She thought her mother harsh, and she said so ; and 
 in return received a lecture upon female decorum, which, to a 
 person whose offences were entirely on the side of stiffness, 
 coldness, and fastidious reserve, became almost an absurdity. 
 
 A gulf, wider than ever, was opened between Maude and her 
 parents ; and, unhappily, the subject of difference could not be 
 avoided. It was brought forward daily, by letters, visits, and 
 suggestions, and all that marvellous want of taste which neigh- 
 bours and acquaintances so often show in their strained efforts 
 to be sympathetic. 
 
 ' The pleasant details of the marriage/ as Lord Rutherford 
 had termed them, came in due time; certainly exculpating Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey from any share in the plan, but throwing great 
 blame upon one of her daughters. It was Miss Caroline Grey, 
 who had entered into the scheme, and furthered it ; and had 
 actually been present at the marriage. Of course her mother 
 was duly shocked and distressed ; but no regret could undo the 
 past. The intimacy between the two families must inevitably 
 be stopped for the future; and Mrs Cuthbert Grey's excuses and 
 apologies were received and dismissed coldly, and with an openly 
 avowed satisfaction on the part of Lady Charlton, as she spoke 
 to Maude of the obstacle which would, in consequence, be inter- 
 posed to the designs upon Lord Erlsmere, with whom Mrs 
 Cuthbert Grey had no acquaintance except through their meet- 
 ings at Senilhurst. 
 
 Maude could not enter into such feelings ; they were, to her, 
 petty and unbecoming. She did not look at them deeply, as a 
 person of high, religious principle would have done; but she was 
 disgusted. She longed to bury the subject for ever in oblivion. 
 She heard that it was proposed for Mr Wentworth, if possible, 
 to enter the army, and she hoped he might be ordered abroad. 
 That was what, in her heart, she most desired. Anything to 
 remove them from her mother's thoughts ; to prevent the con- 
 stant, exasperating recurrence to the same unhappy topic. As 
 regarded Adelaide, they had never been sisters in more than 
 name ; and Maude could not feign a regret at her loss which 
 she had no reason to feel. 
 
 Yet Senilhurst was very changed. Something was gone from 
 it ; not money, not rank, not any external advantage : but the
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 303 
 
 life, the spring and motive of excitement, were absent. Adelaide 
 had been an excuse for visits, parties, amusements ; and though 
 Maude professed not to like these things, she had been so long 
 accustomed to them, that she did not know how to do without 
 them. She looked hopelessly round for some object, something 
 to do or to care for, or at least to think of. Accomplishments 
 and study were left her, and Maude had once boasted that with 
 these she could never find existence wearisome. But they were 
 not sufficient now. There was nothing soothing and satisfying 
 in them. She might read, but to what purpose ? — she might 
 study, but where was the benefit, if reading and thought did but 
 send her forth on a journey of intricate speculations and dis- 
 tracting difficulties ? Maude leaned upon her own mind, and 
 it failed her. 
 
 That was the state of the outward world at Senilhurst, sharp, 
 irritated, and gloomy. There was another, an interior world, 
 which none saw, save those who watched in the sick room, where 
 day by day, and hour by hour, the changes and flickerings of 
 disease brought hope or despair to the heart of the Earl of 
 Rutherford. There is, perhaps, no self-deception so universal 
 as that which is discovered in our anxiety for those we love. If 
 Lord Rutherford's case had been another's he would have been 
 the first to discover all that he had to fear. But he was a father, 
 watching over his only child, and who shall blame him, if as he 
 saw Blanche partially regaining her strength, able to eat, able to 
 be moved, able occasionally to converse, he flattered himself 
 with the belief, that the illness was like many other illnesses, 
 dangerous for a time, and requiring care, but giving no definite 
 reason to doubt that she would, when the winter was over, 
 regain her former health. 
 
 ■* Your cough is better, my love, to-day,' he said, as he came 
 to see Blanche when she was dressed, and sitting up for a few 
 hours in her own room. ' Barnes tells me that it has not been 
 half as frequent as it was.' 
 
 ' I have scarcely coughed at all this morning,' replied Blanche : 
 ' and I was only really disturbed by it once in the night ; and 
 then I think it was because the wind changed.' 
 
 ' But you have not eaten anything,' said the earl, observing 
 her untasted dinner placed on a tray near her. 
 
 ' I have no fancy for anything just now. This being kept to 
 one room takes away one's appetite ; but I shall be better when 
 I go out.'
 
 304 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 1 Yes. of course. We must get you out the very first day we 
 can, and then you will improve rapidly.' 
 
 ' Were there any letters to day V inquired Blanche, wishing 
 to change the subject. 
 
 ' One or two from Rutherford upon business.' 
 
 ' But any for me ? ' 
 
 Lord Rutherford hesitated a little. ' Yes — no — there may 
 have been. But, my love, if there should be, you know we 
 agreed that you were not to trouble yourself about them.' 
 
 ' But I should like it, if I might. It would be an amusement 
 to me,' she was going to say, but she stopped ; — the dread of 
 something unpleasant which the post might bring came over 
 her. She had been so ill, — utterly weak and helpless, that she 
 had scarcely remembered anything till within the last few days ; 
 and even now, when she could try to recollect, it was difficult 
 to bring her anxieties into a definite form. The last hour of 
 excitement on the ball-night had left only indistinct memories 
 of lights, and music, and crowds of people, and of an under- 
 current of great physical and mental suffering to herself, and 
 there was no one whom she could ask to make it clearer for 
 her. Eleanor, she knew, was gone, and there had been no letter 
 from her ; only inquiries for herself through the Johnstones. 
 And there was also a rumour that Eleanor had returned to 
 Rutherford ; but how, or when, or why, no one would say. 
 She was always entreated not to talk, and warned that her 
 ultimate recovery depended upon her being kept perfectly quiet ; 
 but they who said this little thought how much worry of mind 
 they were causing. ' I am really much better to-day, dear papa/ 
 she continued, looking up at him with a smile, which it was 
 almost impossible to resist ; ' and I should very much like to 
 have my letters, if there are any. Did you say there were ? ' 
 
 1 I think and I believe there may be. But, my love, I should 
 be pleased if you would wait. I am sure it would be better, un- 
 less you were anxious — there is nothing you care particularly to 
 hear of, is there ? ' 
 
 ' I have been wishing very much to hear from Eleanor. If 
 there was a letter from her I should be glad to have it.' Her 
 cheek flushed a little as she spoke ; and the earl looked at her un- 
 easily, and remarked that even the thought of the letters had clone 
 her harm, and he was sure she was much better without them. 
 Blanche tried very hard to acquiesce willingly. She said if he 
 wished it she would not ask ; she would wait till the next day :
 
 THE EARDS DAUGHTER. 305 
 
 but a tear glistened in her eye, though she was ashamed of being 
 so childishly weak. Lord Rutherford offered to read, lie had 
 not read the Psalms for the day to her ; and he did so regularly 
 now. 1 1 came quite as part of his duty as her nurse ; and he was 
 beginning to look forward to it as something quieting and re- 
 freshing. Blanche thanked him, and said she should like it very 
 much, and he went to another table to fetch the Prayer-book, 
 which had been moved away when the dinner was brought. 
 Blanche wiped away her tears hastily, that he might not sec it; 
 but he turned round at the instant, and that peculiar look of 
 sorrowful eagerness came over his face, which was always to be 
 seen when Blanche was disappointed. He put down the Prayer- 
 book, and came up to her instantly, and said, had she really any 
 wish or fancy about the letters ? he would fetch them for her 
 directly, if she had. 
 
 1 Only for Eleanor's ! ' repeated Blanche. ' I was very 
 anxious to hear from her.' 
 
 Lord Rutherford thought for a moment, and then he replied, 
 ' There is a letter from her, but I am afraid it might be worse 
 for you than any others, because it would be so likely to excite 
 you.' 
 
 ' I am more likely to be excited without it,' said Blanche, 
 ' because I lie here and think so.' 
 
 Again Lord Rutherford pondered for a moment, and Blanche 
 watched his face and read it ; and laying her hand upon his 
 arm, said, ' Papa, you have something to tell me.' 
 
 1 Not about Miss Wentworth exactly — only about her brother 
 and ' 
 
 ' Adelaide,' said Blanche, hurriedly ; and at the moment a 
 veil seemed to be taken from the past, and it stood out clearly 
 to view. 
 
 ' You guess then,' continued the earl, and a smile involuntarily 
 began to play upon his lips ; but it changed as he saw the ex- 
 pression of Blanche's face : it was that of extreme distress; and 
 closing her eyes as if to shut out some painful vision, she sank 
 back upon her pillow, and exclaimed, ' Then it is over ! Shall 
 I ever be forgiven ! ' 
 
 A sudden thought, startling, unendurable, crossed the earl's 
 mind ; he repelled it, and sitting down by Blanche, said, ' Will they 
 be forgiven, you mean. I hope it may all turn out better than 
 we expect ; but it is a sad business.' Blanche still kept her eyes 
 closed; she was repeating something to herself; the anguish of 
 
 l
 
 306 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 her countenance was inexplicable ; could it be that she was in- 
 volved in such a secret — with her delicacy, simplicity, and refine- 
 ment, was it possible that she could have been a party to the 
 intended marriage ? The earl shrank from the suggestion as if 
 a serpent had stung him ; but in a moment a flood of corroborative 
 circumstances rushed upon him. At another time he would have 
 been the first to consider prudence ; but this suspicion, this 
 possible taint upon the object of his idolising affection, goaded 
 him beyond endurance, and he exclaimed, ' You did not know 
 it ? Blanche, my child, you could not have had anything to do 
 with it ? ' For the first time since they had been together his 
 tone was severe. 
 
 It fell with a painful shock upon poor Blanche, uprooting her 
 unconscious trust in her own power over him. ' I did not mean 
 to do wrong. I acted for the best,' she said, meekly. 'Please 
 do not be angry with me ; ' and at the mention of anger Lord 
 Rutherford started, as if he had been accused of some grievous 
 crime ; and the love which, even when it lay dormant in his 
 breast, was the moving spring of his daily life, came back with 
 a torrent of bitterness to reproach him. He told her that she 
 was his hope, his treasure ; the only joy of his life ; that it 
 would be a sin to doubt her; and Blanche listened in fear, and 
 prayed that the love which was fixed upon her might in mercy 
 find a surer resting-place, and then humbly asked if she might 
 tell him all that she had done. 
 
 It was a tale soon repeated, soon understood, and Blanche 
 was happy when she heard her father's whispered blessings ; 
 but she did not discover how much cause he had for thankful- 
 ness himself. She did not remember the load which must be 
 taken from his heart by the knowledge of the cause of her de- 
 pression ; and she did not perceive the reverence which her 
 firmness and consistency of character inspired. Lord Ruth- 
 erford thought little of religion himself, but he could now appre- 
 ciate it as a principle in others ; and with Blanche he would 
 have shrunk from the careless bestowal of his patronage, as 
 from an injustice against a charge entrusted to him. 
 
 Silence followed : the peaceful silence of hearts which are 
 one in affection and confidence. ' Blanche,' said the earl at 
 length, ' it was excitement which made you so ill. Your aunt 
 says you ought not to have come down-stairs the night of the ball.' 
 
 Blanche looked up at him and smiled. ' Ought I not ? but 
 you like to see me cheerful.'
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGIITi 307 
 
 She meant nothing particular ; but he repeated the last word 
 quickly. ' Cheerful ! who told you I thought about it ?" 
 
 ' Your voice, your manner.' She hesitated; they were tread- 
 ing upon dangerous ground. 
 
 ' When ? the day that I gave away the living V 
 
 1 Every day, and always ;' and involuntarily there was an 
 accent of sadness in Blanche's tone. Another pause came, not 
 happy and peaceful ns the former. 
 
 • Blanche,' said the earl again, gravely, ' you must not try to 
 read my thoughts.' 
 
 Blanche tried to smile as she kissed him, and answered, half- 
 reproachfully, ' How can I help it, when you have given me the 
 key to interpret them ? ' 
 
 Alas ! for the transitory nature of earthly peace. Those few 
 sentences had re-awakened the bitterness of the earl's remorse 
 and anxiety. It was he then who had caused her illness ; he, 
 who, by the very intensity of his solicitude for her happiness, 
 had compelled her to an exertion which might be fatal. 
 
 The curse he had so long dreaded had fallen upon him, 
 though in another form, at last. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 IT was the bright spring time at Rutherford Parsonage. The 
 smooth, neatly trimmed lawn, the flower-bed gay with 
 anemones, auriculas, and polyanthuses — the first fresh green 
 buds upon the trees, were all telling of the genial, inspiriting 
 influence of a morning in May. In a light hand-carriage, 
 which had been drawn into one of the most sunny walks, re- 
 clined a lady, whose gray hair, sunken, worn cheeks, dim eyes, 
 and wrinkled brow, would at a distance have given the idea of 
 much greater age than could be traced on a nearer approach. 
 Her features were good — once they might have been handsome, 
 for their outline was very striking ; but there was a strange, 
 stony, impassive look in the eyes, which gave in general a cold, 
 even vacant look to the countenance. Only, at times, a flash, 
 as of some returning brightness, some gleam from past memo- 
 ries, flitted over it ; and then, for an instant, it was beautiful 
 with intellect ; but the gleam gone, and the set features returned
 
 J 
 
 oS THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 to their former listless gravity, and the helpless hands, and the 
 querulous voice, seemed but the fit accompaniments of an age 
 of disease and dreariness. 
 
 ' It is pleasant to-day, dear mamma,' said Eleanor Went- 
 worth, bending over her mother's chair : < don't you see how 
 forward the flowers are ? ' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth looked round for a moment, and said, ' Go 
 on into the shade.' 
 
 ' But this is the warmest spot, mamma,' continued Eleanor ; 
 1 and you know we are expecting Blanche, and she must not go 
 into the shade. You will like her to come and see you ; won't 
 you ?' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth looked up quickly, and said, '.Yes, we must 
 make her happy, for he doesn't treat her at all well. It is very 
 sad. Tell your father I want to see him.' 
 
 ' Papa will come presently,' said Eleanor, her lip quivering ; 
 ' but we will go on, dear mamma, if you like it, into the shade.' 
 
 ' Yes, that will be best ; go on ;' and they went on. 
 
 Dr Wentworth was standing at his study window. He per- 
 ceived them and came to them. ' It is pleasant to see you out 
 to-day, my love,' he said, addressing his wife. < You are all the 
 better for it, I am sure.' Unconsciously his tone was that of a 
 father speaking to a child ; and there was something of a child's 
 simple trusting love in Mrs Wentworth's way of putting her 
 hand into his, and telling him to keep close to her, and not to 
 let them go too fast. 
 
 Eleanor left her mother's side, and came round to her father. 
 ' Are the letters come ? ' she asked, in a very low voice ; but, 
 low though it was, it reached Mrs Wentworth's ear. 
 
 ' Letters ? ' she repeated ; < give them to me ; we must 
 answer them. We have a great deal to do. We had better go 
 in and answer them. Tell Jones to stop.' 
 
 ' Yes, presently, dear mamma ; presently, my love,' said 
 Eleanor and Dr Wentworth, in one breath. ' We will go in 
 presently.' 
 
 ' But,' continued Dr Wentworth, slipping a packet of letters 
 into Eleanor's hand, ' I should like you just to be drawn round 
 the orchard once ; and Eleanor can go and fetch my hat.' 
 Mrs Wentworth sank back again in her chair, and Eleanor, 
 carefully concealing the letters, went into the house. Nearly 
 ten minutes elapsed before she returned, and then her eyes 
 were red with crying ; but she kept her face steadily averted
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 309 
 
 irom her father, until her mother's attention was occupied by 
 what she thought was a new shrub. Then, as they stopped to 
 examine it, Eleanor walked on a few paces with Dr Wentworth, 
 and said : 'He must not sec her; I am afraid. It would do 
 her great harm ! ' 
 
 Dr Wentworth tore off a twig from a tree, and casting it from 
 him replied, ' Let him go. I had only one wish in his seeing her.' 
 
 ' It would break his heart,' said Eleanor. 
 
 ' It might sober him for life,' replied her father. 
 
 ' He will not come without Adelaide,' said Eleanor, taking 
 advantage of a narrow part of the walk still to walk a little 
 before the carriage, and side by side with her father. 
 
 ' Then he will not come at all,' was the bitter reply. ' Your 
 poor mother shall never, with my consent, be harassed by the 
 sight of her.' 
 
 ' Eleanor,' called out Mrs Wentworth, in a shrill, plaintive 
 voice, ' I wish you would inquire about the letters. There 
 won't be any time to answer them, and you know I must go up 
 to the castle this afternoon. She is not so well, you said. I 
 promised I would go.' 
 
 ' Lady Blanche is coming here, dear mamma,' said Eleanor. 
 with a particular stress upon the name. ' You know she has 
 had a bad cough, and is very ill ; and she is coming to wish 
 you good-bye before Lord Rutherford takes her to the sea-side 
 for change of air.' 
 
 ' Ah ! yes, I forgot,' and Mrs Wentworth looked at her 
 husband wonderingly. ' I don't know how it is I forget so. I 
 know they told me she had been ill. She has been so a long 
 time, has not she ? ' 
 
 ' All the winter,' answered Dr Wentworth. ' She broke a 
 
 blood-vessel when she was at ' a rapid, cautionary glance 
 
 from Eleanor stopped him, and he finished the sentence, ' when 
 she was away.' 
 
 'And they did not think she would live then,' continued 
 Eleanor, not allowing a moment's time for a question ; ' but 
 she was better after a time, and they brought her to the castle ; 
 now she is going away lor change again.' 
 
 ' A long change,' said Dr Wentworth, gravely. ' It is a cruel 
 thing in those doctors. Poor child ! why not let her die at home?' 
 
 Eleanor was silent, but she drew back from her mother's 
 chair, and walked for some paces alone. 
 
 ' One more turn, my clear, round the orchard,' said Dr
 
 3io THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 Wentworth, arranging his wife's cushions, and giving a sign to 
 the gardener to go on. Then he rejoined Eleanor. ' I shall 
 write to Charles by to-day's post : you may write too, if you 
 will. I don't want him to feel himself cut off; but he must 
 not come here.' 
 
 ' It seems very hard,' said Eleanor. 
 
 ' Hard ! ' and Dr Wentworth paused, impatiently, in his 
 walk. ' Look at her; — look at your poor mother ; and then 
 say who has been treated hardly ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Eleanor, speaking in a low, crushed voice ; ' but 
 she would be the first to forgive, if she could. 
 
 ' And I forgive, too,' said Dr Wentworth, solemnly. ' God 
 forbid that I should not ; even as I hope to be forgiven myself. 
 It is not from anger that I say he must not come. If he were 
 alone, I might risk it; but if he insists upon bringing that' 
 
 ' Papa, dear papa,' said Eleanor, entreatingly. 
 
 ' You are right ; you are right,' replied Dr Wentworth ; ' we 
 must be charitable. If she were sorrowful — if she could feel 
 what she has done — I could be so easily. But she is a flirt ; a 
 cold, heartless flirt,' he repeated. ' She was so before she 
 married ; she is so still.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is the worst of all,' said Eleanor, with a heavy 
 sigh ; ' and one cannot help pitying Charles all the more.' 
 
 ' A soldier in a foreign land,' continued Dr Wentworth,' 
 ' with a wife whom he must despise ; feeling himself scorned by 
 her family, and having utterly shipwrecked the happiness of his 
 own ; he may well be wretched.' 
 
 ' He is very wretched — very miserable,' said Eleanor. 
 
 ' But what could he expect better ? ' pursued Dr Went- 
 worth. ' What has any man a right to expect when he trusts 
 his happiness to a woman who could behave like Adelaide 
 Charlton?' 
 
 ' People may do worse things than Adelaide has done,' said 
 Eleanor, sorrowfully, ' and not be blamed half as much.' 
 
 Dr Wentworth looked at Eleanor kindly, for he understood 
 her. ' My poor child ! ' he said, and as he put up his hand to 
 wipe away a tear, he added, ' I can take infinite blame to my- 
 self. I was too secure, too certain that all was right. I allowed 
 him to have his own way, and I shut my eyes to his faults. Your 
 poor mother was the only person who saw him truly. But one 
 thing I can be thankful for — that he was saved from entering 
 holy orders. To have induced him to be a clergyman, and then
 
 THE EARL'S DA UGHTER. 3 1 1 
 
 to have discovered his unfitness, would have been a misery to 
 me for life.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth's voice was just then heard, in a querulous 
 accent. She was wondering where they were gone ; why they 
 did not come and walk by her side ; and, as they hastened to 
 her, she burst into tears, and said it was a miserable day; every 
 one neglected her. 
 
 Eleanor pinned her shawl comfortably, and settled her cushion 
 again, and as the sound of carriage-wheels and of a bell were 
 heard at the entrance, exclaimed, ' Hark ! there is Blanche. 
 Dear mamma, you will like to see her for one minute.' 
 
 ' I don't know— I don't want to see any one. Why do they 
 bring her down here ? Isn't she very ill ?' said Mrs Wentworth, 
 her eyes moving rapidly from side to side ; and then, in a startled 
 voice, she added, ' Does he come with her ?' 
 
 ' Blanche will come alone, if you like it,' said Eleanor ; and 
 going round to her father, who was walking a little behind, she 
 whispered, ' You must keep Lord Rutherford. Blanche will only 
 slay a very few minutes, dear mamma,' she added, returning to 
 her mother, and trying to occupy her attention whilst Dr Went- 
 worth went to receive the earl. ' You know she is scarcely 
 allowed to stand still at all out of doors ; and she is so very 
 soon tired.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; I know,' replied Mrs Wentworth, and murmuring 
 to herself, she added, ' She is going ; it is all best — there is no 
 care there.' 
 
 The garden gate opened, and closed again. Eleanor looked 
 round. 
 
 ' Are they coming ? ' said Mrs Wentworth, growing excited. 
 ' Make me look neat, Eleanor ; you didn't dress me properly. 
 The earl always makes remarks.' 
 
 Eleanor bent down her head, and busied herself with her 
 mother. It might have been that she could not bear to watch 
 the feeble footsteps with which Blanche, supported by her father, 
 moved slowly along the walk. Dr Wentworth and Maude Charl- 
 ton were behind her; but as they drew near to Mrs Wentworth, 
 the earl stopped and gave up his place to Maude. 
 
 ' Blanche, Blanche ! ' repeated Mrs Wentworth, with an effort 
 at thought. ' Is she like her mother? ' 
 
 Eleanor made no answer, for Blanche was standing by her. 
 One silent kiss she imprinted on her forehead, and then leading 
 her round to the front of Mrs Wentworth's chair, she said,
 
 3 1 2 THE EARL'S DA UGHTER. 
 
 1 Mamma, it is Lady Blanche Evelyn, come to wish you good- 
 bye.' 
 
 Mrs Wentworth looked up with an unmeaning start of sur- 
 prise, and as her eye caught the pale brow, and dark, glitter- 
 ing, sunken eye, and the hollow cheek — which were all that 
 could be seen of Blanche's sweet face— a smile of pleasure lit 
 up her own features, and she said hurriedly, ' I was coming to 
 you to-day. Will he be out, and shall we have an hour to 
 ourselves ? ' Dimness gathered over Blanche's eyes, and her 
 voice was choked. 
 
 ' It will not do,' said Eleanor ; ' but I thought when she saw 
 you it might be different.' 
 
 ' Will you not know me ? — will you not wish me a safe 
 journey ? Dear Mrs Wentworth, I am Blanche Evelyn ; ' and 
 Blanche bent clown that her face might be more clearly recog- 
 nised. Mrs Wentworth caught her hand, and looked at her 
 sternly and fixedly. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said ; ' yes, I know you. You are going.' 
 
 ' Going where we shall meet again, I trust,' said Blanche, 
 calmly. 
 
 A gleam of intelligence brightened the vacant face. Mrs 
 Wentworth smiled, and raising the hand of which she still re- 
 tained the use to Blanche's head, she gently stroked her fore- 
 head, as a mother might that of a petted child, and said, ' God 
 bless and keep you, my dear, and bring you back better. And 
 Eleanor,' she added firmly, 'give her her mother's picture — she 
 will like it. ' 
 
 It was the utmost effort of remaining intellect. Mrs Went- 
 worth's hand dropped, and her head sank back ; and when 
 Blanche gave one parting kiss, a wondering stare was all that 
 met her gaze. 
 
 CHAPTER XL1X. 
 
 GLORIOUSLY beautiful was the splendour of the setting 
 sun, as it slowly sank to rest that evening behind the 
 steep hills which closed the ravine at the foot of Rutherford 
 Castle. Far over hill and valley streamed the flood of its 
 golden rays ; and the rugged mountains in the distance were 
 wrapped in a veil of glittering mist, whilst their peaks caught
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 313 
 
 and transmitted from point to point the light which they 
 gathered from the glowing skies. And nearer, where the 
 radiant colouring of the higher hills had melted into the purple 
 shadow of rock and wood, there still gleamed a faint path of 
 light upon the deep-flowing stream, winding its way ever and 
 onwards, without pause or rest, like the course of that awful 
 river of Time which, lit by the reflection of Heaven, is carrying 
 us all to eternity. 
 
 The Earl of Rutherford walked alone on the terrace of the 
 castle. Alone ! that word suffices to tell the tale of his misery. 
 What matter to him, that the gorgeous sunset illuminated a 
 princely domain which owned him for its lord ? What matter 
 that, as far as the eye could reach in hamlets, and villages, and 
 towns, and the remote recesses of the distant hills, wherever his 
 name was heard, men bent before it with respect, and envied 
 him his greatness and his power ! he was alone ; and Blanche 
 was dying. 
 
 It is long before we allow the meaning of that word to force 
 itself upon our minds. It had been long before Lord Ruther- 
 ford would own to himself the realisation of the fear which 
 haunted him from the first moment of his child"s illness. But 
 it was all clear now — all true and vivid. There was death 
 written in the hectic colour of her hollow cheek — in the glassy 
 brightness of her dark eye — in the burning touch of her long 
 fingers ; and the quick, short cough which came but for a 
 moment to leave behind it the echo of a funeral knell. 
 
 Blanche was dying. She might linger, she had lingered — 
 from day to day, from week to week — no great change marking 
 the progress of disease ; sometimes apparently better, able to 
 work and read — sometimes exhausted and feverish ; no one day 
 exactly alike, or widely differing from, the other. But the end 
 was certain. It was in vain that physicians gave flattering 
 hopes, and friends related wonderful recoveries. There was 
 one fact to which no one who watched Blanche constantly 
 could be blind — she did not improve. Every week something 
 was taken from her strength ; every week something was given 
 up which she had before been able to enjoy. The incipient 
 disease, which might have been warded off at first by care, 
 had received a fatal impulse on the night of the Senilhurst ball ; 
 and the changes, though imperceptible at the moment, were 
 nevertheless very rapid. 
 
 For a time Lord Rutherford had flattered himself that the
 
 3H THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 weather was in fault. When snow lay upon the ground in the 
 month of January, he looked forward to the spring for her 
 recovery ; and when the spring came, and the east winds blew 
 keenly, he said that they could expect no real amendment till 
 the summer. A warm summer in England and a winter 
 abroad would quite set her up. But summer approached, and 
 the weather was unusually favourable ; and still, though Blanche 
 might rally for a few days, there was no real progress : and 
 then the earl looked more careworn, and said less ; only he 
 thought she would be better at Rutherford, and to Rutherford 
 they prepared to go. 
 
 That at least was a satisfaction to Blanche. She pined for 
 home, with an indefinable, eager longing. She did not say to 
 herself that she should be well there ; perhaps she did not in 
 her heart think so : but in her sad moments — the hour of 
 weakness, both of body and mind — which are the greatest trial of 
 such diseases, she fancied that it might at least bring her a respite. 
 
 The air of Rutherford, the lovely views, the peculiar comforts 
 of her own rooms, the interests which were to be found in the 
 village, and, above all, the hope of seeing Eleanor, and return- 
 ing to the friendship which, though interrupted, had never 
 been lost — all gave a charm to the prospect of return. If she 
 could be at Rutherford again, she felt that she might live ; 
 and the thought sent a bounding thrill through her veins. For 
 life is very pleasant to the young, and Blanche had just tasted of 
 its enjoyments. 
 
 Then came the departure from Senilhurst — the hurry of pre- 
 paration — the unavoidable excitement — the last thoughts, and 
 last farewells. Blanche could not escape them. She was 
 sorrowful and depressed, without apparently sufficient cause; and 
 they told her it was weakness — that she should be a different 
 person at Rutherford, and would return again to Senilhurst quite 
 well : and she smiled and said, she would not call it a real good- 
 bye, — she did hope to come again very soon ; and she had left a 
 box and some books to be kept for her. She begged her aunt 
 would write to her, and say how she managed without Maude. 
 It was so very, very kind to spare Maude. It would be such a 
 comfort till she was better ; but she would not keep her a day 
 longer than was necessary. 
 
 And Lady Charlton struggled against her rising tears, and 
 I. Used her tenderly; and Sir Hugh waved his hand, as she was 
 assisted down the steps— -and she was gone.
 
 THE EARL'S DA UGHTER. 3 1 5 
 
 It was two days' journey from Senilhurst to Rutherford ; 
 when they had travelled before, it was but one. Then Blanche 
 was able to enjoy the novelty of the road, and to look forward 
 with expectation, and hopes of pleasure : now she was laid on 
 cushions, too tired to speak or think. When they had left 
 Rutherford, she had bounded down the staircase, eager to be 
 useful and kind to every one : now she was lifted in her father's 
 arms, and carried to her own apartments, fainting. 
 
 That night, the night of their arrival at home, the earl first 
 felt that she would die. And that night, also, as Blanche laid 
 her head upon her pillow, she prayed that she might be taught 
 to die. Nearly a month had passed since, and another change 
 had been proposed. The air of Rutherford was thought too 
 keen, and a removal to the sea-coast was considered desirable. 
 It was the advice of a first-rate London physician. The earl 
 and Blanche acquiesced, without a word of objection; but 
 when the physician was gone, they looked at each other, and 
 said, ' He may be right : it is of little consequence, so that we 
 are together.' That was their one thought — that they might 
 be together — that the earl might sit by her, and raise her when 
 she wished for change of posture, and bathe her forehead when 
 she was exhausted, and read to her when she was able to listen, 
 and mark the hours for her daily drives — her food — her medi- 
 cine; and that Blanche might thank him in whispers, and 
 smooth his hair, and press his hand, and lift her eyes to his, 
 with a smile on her pale lips, and a prayer of unutterable 
 thankfulness in her inmost heart, for the mercy which in leading 
 her to death was leading her father to heaven. 
 
 Lord Rutherford was said to be determined in his opinions, 
 rigid in his self-formed principles, proud of his influence, and 
 exacting in his demands upon the submission even of his 
 equals. He might have been, he was all this, and much more. 
 Haughty, indifferent, unsympathising, selfish, as that man must 
 be who has reached the middle of life without contradiction or 
 self-examination ; but he was honest-minded. Whatever were 
 the errors of his practice or his belief, he was no self-deceiver : 
 and from the fatal moment when he stood by the inanimate 
 body of his wife, and felt the conviction that he had been the 
 murderer of her peace, if not of her life, he had carried with 
 him a goading thought of self-reproach to shield him, as by a 
 secret spell, from the intoxication of earthly splendour. He 
 had lived with Blanche now for months only. To him they
 
 316 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 seemed years, since he could not realise what life had been 
 without her ; and in that time, secretly, and without word, or 
 argument, or entreaty, new principles and motives of conduct 
 had been gradually stealing into his heart. He scarcely knew 
 it himself; he did not understand the power which influenced 
 him ; and, when he thought of it at all, he supposed that it was 
 a father's natural affection for a child like Blanche ; and so at 
 first it was. When Lord Rutherford began to read to Blanche, 
 and talk about things which interested her, and take trouble for 
 the poor, he did it merely because it was her fancy, and it gave 
 him pleasure to listen to her remarks, and hear her thanks ; he 
 did not care for the subjects in themselves ; and satisfaction 
 like this was very unreal, and, to a person less true, might 
 have been very deceptive. But Lord Rutherford was too clear- 
 sighted to believe that he resembled Blanche, or was actuated 
 by her motives, because he was beginning to approve what she 
 approved. He would even have been annoyed if such a thought 
 had been suggested ; for he was proud and self-confident, and 
 Blanche was to him only ' as a very lovely song of one that 
 bath a pleasant voice/ exquisite to the senses, but not reaching 
 the heart. 
 
 But they were to part. The decree had gone forth, to all 
 human knowledge absolute and irreversible. She was to be 
 taken from him ; it might be in a few weeks, it might be in a 
 few months ; it could scarcely be — in a year. And whither 
 was she going ! Lord Rutherford had no doubt in his reply. 
 When the thought first came, as he looked at his angel-child, 
 when she had fallen asleep whilst he was reading to her, her 
 fingers clasped in the earnestness of the prayer with which she 
 had followed his words, and the brightness of heaven's peace 
 resting upon her fair young face, he knew that she was safe. 
 The voice of a messenger from above could scarcely have in- 
 creased his confidence. And he said to himself then, and many 
 times afterwards, that she was too good for this world. He said 
 it to Dr Wentworth when he came to see her ; he wrote it to 
 Lady Charlton, and he fancied that it gave him comfort. But 
 did it do so ? 
 
 In the anguish of the long nights, as he lay awake listening 
 for every sound, conjuring up visions of dread, and knowing 
 that the very worst which might be sent to startle him could 
 only be the anticipation of an inevitable certainty — his past life 
 rose up before him. The carelessness of his boyhood— the
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 317 
 
 open irreligion of his manhood — the cold hardness and in- 
 sensibility of his advancing age ; all marked by certain positive 
 offences, and mingled into one huge mass of sin, by the misty 
 memories of his half-forgotten offences. If the God whom he 
 professed to worship was a God of mercy ; if in calling Blanche 
 from an evil world, He was but calling her to early happiness ; 
 was He not also a God of judgment ? and could the innocent 
 and the guilty, the holy and the unholy, hope to meet again in 
 the same heaven ? 
 
 It was a question which, when once suggested, could not be 
 put aside. It followed him by clay as well as night ; it intruded 
 into his transient intervals of peace, when Blanche seemed more 
 at ease, and he was able to interest and amuse her ; it pursued 
 him, as a spectre, in his solitary moments, and he could not 
 speak of it, or find relief in human sympathy ; for he had lived 
 to himself, until the very thought of unreserve was abhorrent to 
 him. Yet misery did not make him cold and harsh ; that could 
 not be when he was watching over Blanche. The very tone of 
 her voice was soothing and softening to him, and sometimes a 
 strange momentary hopefulness crossed his mind, when she in 
 any way alluded to the future, as if even for him there might 
 also be pardon and rest. But it could not stay, for was he not 
 under punishment at that very hour? Had not the course of 
 his early sins followed him through long years of dreariness ; 
 and had it not fallen now, chiefly by his means, upon the only 
 being whom he had left on earth to love ? 
 
 And with these thoughts Lord Rutherford walked alone upon 
 the tea-race of his castle. 
 
 B 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 LAN CHE watched the sunset also from her sofa, which had 
 been drawn near the window that she might enjoy it. 
 Maude was with her ; she was her constant nurse in Lord 
 Rutherford's absence, and Blanche had no longer reason to 
 dread her cousin's moodiness and sharpness. Soon after the 
 announcement of Adelaide's marriage, Maude's manner had 
 quite changed. Blanche thought it must be from pity : but 
 Maude's sympathies were not easily called forth, even by ill ■
 
 3i8 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 ness ; and many times before, when Blanche had needed it, 
 she had withheld it. Neither was pity the proper term for 
 Maude's devoted attention. It was too silent and thoughtful, 
 as if offered to a superior ; and Blanche, in her humility, would 
 not have supposed it possible that Maude could look upon her 
 in such a light. The firmness of character she had shown, and 
 which was made known to Maude by conversation with Lord 
 Rutherford, had produced an effect which Blanche would never 
 have imagined ; for Maude could not be brought to confess 
 that she had suspected unjustly ; and if, from that time, she 
 pondered more deeply upon the principles by which Blanche was 
 actuated, and oftener asked herself whether they might not, 
 afcer all, contain the truths for which she was herself seeking, 
 no one was allowed to guess the thoughts that were working in 
 her breast, except by her actions. 
 
 They were reconciled without explanation ; but Blanche 
 many times wished herself strong enough to bear a recurrence 
 to those painful scenes ; and Maude's conscience, when it re- 
 proached her for false shame, urged her at least to make repara- 
 tion in deed, by insisting upon accompanying Blanche to 
 Rutherford, and nursing her during her illness. This was no 
 act of self-denial ; for self-denial, except when it involved some 
 tangible good to others, was not part of Maude's creed of duty. 
 But she knew that she might be of use, and thought it probable 
 that she might be a comfort ; and, for herself, the fascination 
 which had drawn her towards Blanche in health, acted with 
 tenfold intensity in illness. 
 
 To be with her was to find rest, at least for the hour — rest 
 from the despairing search after truth by the light of her own 
 intellect, in the calm, abiding faith of one who had received and 
 followed it from infancy. 
 
 Yet they were mournful days for Maude ; this one especially 
 had been trying. The farewell visit to Mrs Wentworth had 
 been a greater effort than Blanche was equal to, and she had 
 suffered much in consequence. In itself, it must, at all events, 
 have been very painful, and the pain was increased by the re- 
 collections which it excited, and which Blanche could not 
 entirely overcome ; although she had been assured again and 
 again, by Dr Wentworth himself, that gratitude rather than 
 reproach was due to her. Blanche tried to believe that she had 
 acted rightly ; she did believe it in her heart ; yet the sight of 
 Mrs Wentworth's vacant countenance, the wreck of all that had
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER: 319 
 
 once been so noble, was a fearful shock. The question would 
 arise, in spite of herself — Had she not in some way been instru- 
 mental in causing it ? And it was not till after a visit from Dr 
 Wentworth, who came to her in the course of the afternoon, 
 that she could in any degree recover her former composure. 
 
 Still she did not regret the exertion she had made. It had 
 been her own wish to pay the last respect that might be in her 
 power to her mother's early friend ; and Eleanor had entered 
 into the idea, with the faint hope that the excitement might 
 produce a favourable effect upon Mrs Wentworth. 
 
 Maude had urged delay. She said that Blanche was lea 
 Rutherford for a time only, and might return better able to 1 
 the interview. But Blanche would not allow herself to trust to 
 this hope. Hope, indeed, it could scarcely be called. She knew 
 her own symptoms too well, and could read the countenances oi 
 those about her too truly to admit of hope. Her daily prayer, 
 her daily lesson, now, was not to desire it. 
 
 We may believe that there is always one last trial to be en- 
 dured, one last grace to be acquired by those whom God visits 
 with lingering illness. They to whom life is fraught with care, 
 and the thought of the grave full of the rest for which they sigh, 
 can little know the awfulness of that moment which first brings 
 the young and the hopeful in sight of death. Blanche's short 
 life had been burdened with many disappointments, many 
 anxieties ; and, in the time of health, she had often thought oi 
 the blessedness of an early removal from temptation, and believed 
 that she could welcome it. The blessing was sent, and she 
 trembled at it. It was not strange. She did not know till then 
 how dear life was to her ; she did not know how she valued the 
 familiar faces of those even whom she supposed did not suit 
 her ; she did not understand how much she clung to sights, and 
 sounds, and associations, and memories, which came and went 
 almost without notice, but which constituted the amusement ot 
 existence. She did not know how precious her father's love 
 was, how she rested upon it and trusted to it for protection. 
 The prospect of death at a distance, and the actual waiting for 
 its approach, were very different. 
 
 She gazed upon the sunset now, with Maude sitting beside 
 her, and supporting her that she might be better able to watch 
 it ; but they were both silent. Blanche's memory had travelled 
 back to the evening when she first saw that glorious view ; when 
 her father welcomed her to her home : and Maude's thoughts
 
 320 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 had wandered onwards into the dark future of earth and the dim 
 awfulness of eternity. 
 
 Maude was the first to break the silence. ' One should like 
 to follow it,' she said ; ' to know where it goes. One cannot 
 imagine it still lighting up this world.' 
 
 ' I should be sorry to realise that it did,' answered Blanche. 
 ' Sunset has always been my most vivid idea of Heaven.' 
 
 ' It is too sad for Heaven,' said Maude. ' Even as a child, 
 one felt its sadness.' 
 
 The eyes of Blanche filled with tears. ' It ought not to be 
 sad,' she replied ; ■ so beautiful it is in itself, and with hope to 
 make it more so. If one did not regret this world, it would be 
 joyful.' 
 
 ' Yet there is little enough here to tempt one to regret,' said 
 Maude. 
 
 ' Do you think so ? ' asked Blanche, earnestly, and with a 
 touching, child-like simplicity, as if really wishing to hear Maude's 
 answer. 
 
 It was not given directly. Maude's eyes dwelt upon the 
 crimson light, which, although the sun had sunk behind the 
 hills, still flooded the western horizon, spreading itself far and 
 wide, till it melted imperceptibly into a faint ethereal blue. 
 ' It is glorious, most glorious,' she exclaimed ; ' but it is too 
 much ; one cannot grasp it.' 
 
 ' And one can grasp earth,' said Blanche, with a sigh. 
 
 ' Grasp it, and find it ashes,' replied Maude, bitterly ; ' some 
 do, at least ; not you, Blanche.' 
 
 ' I have had a very happy life,' said Blanche ; ' every one 
 has been very kind to me. I should like to thank them.' 
 
 Maude turned round quickly ; < Now do you mean ? Because 
 you are going away ? ' 
 
 ' Not to-night ; I am so tired : but I should like every one 
 to know that I have thought about them. If you come back 
 again, Maude, will you tell them so ? ' 
 
 ' You must tell them yourself, then, dear child,' said Maude, 
 kissing her. 
 
 Blanche looked earnestly in her face, and answered, ' I should 
 like to say things out plainly to you ; bv:t I cannot ; if you do 
 not understand.' 
 
 ' I do — I do understand,' replied Maude, her voice sounding- 
 hollow with the effort to appear calm. 
 
 < I shall not come back.' said Blanche. ' Even papa does not
 
 THE KARL'S DAUGHTER. 321 
 
 really think so ; and I should like to tell you now what to do 
 With some of my things — my books and pictures, and orna- 
 ments. I think about them a good deal, and I don't wish to 
 do so ; and if I might say to you what I should like to have 
 done with them, it would be off my mind.' 
 
 ' But not to-night, dearest,' said Maude. 
 
 ' No ; perhaps not to-night : but to-morrow, the first thing, 
 I should wish it. You sec, Maude, I may not have very much 
 time before me, though papa and Dr Granville say the sea-air 
 will do me good ; and if I could settle about it all, and say 
 good-bye to every one, and thank them, I should not have such 
 wandering thoughts — at least, I hope not.' 
 
 Maude bent her head upon the sofa ; her tears were uncon- 
 trollable. Blanche put her arm round her, as she had some- 
 times been wont to do in her days of health, and speaking quite 
 calmly, said, ' You must not fret about me, Maude, and fancy I 
 am worse because I speak so; I only do it because of something 
 Dr Wentworth said yesterday. When he has come to see me 
 lately he has been very kind, and I have been able to talk to 
 him ; and he understands — he knows what I feel.' 
 
 'About being ill ?' asked Maude. 
 
 ' About death ! ' said Blanche. She waited for a moment, 
 and closed her eyes as if praying mentally ; then she said, ' If 
 I were very good, I should not be afraid ; but I cannot quite 
 help it.' 
 
 ' No one can help it, I should think,' replied Maude. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, some persons can : but Dr Wentworth says 
 they are generally persons who are older and have suffered more ; 
 and you know, Maude, I have always had some one to depend 
 upon, and take cars of me ; and — but that is wicked — because 
 I have no faith,' she added. 
 
 1 If I were like you,' began Maude, quickly ; ' and had lived 
 the life you have ' 
 
 Blanche interrupted her ; ' Maude, dear, you will not say 
 things which vex me, now we have so little time to be together. 
 But I don't think the fear I have is so much about all I have 
 done wrong ; there is such great, great hope of forgiveness. 
 But, even then, it is so awful, so lonely ; if some one could go 
 with me, — papa, or Mrs Howard, or you. I have never been 
 alone all my life. I wonder what it will be like. O Maude, 
 can you think ? ' she covered her face with her hands, as if 
 shrinking from the thought ; when she looked up again all was 
 
 x
 
 322 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 peaceful. ' It is over now,' she said, heaving a sigh of relief ; 
 ' it comes and goes — the dark hour as Dr Wentworth calls it. 
 But he says I shall feel it less if I pray : and, Maude, you will 
 do to-morrow what I asked ? because I am to put away my 
 cares for this world, even the very little ones, and then there 
 will be nothing to come between me and my Saviour.' 
 
 ' There can be very little now,' said Maude, tenderly. 
 
 Blanche shook her head. < Ah, Maude ! you don't know. I 
 did not know till lately ; but you will hear all I have to say, and 
 promise to do it all ; will you not ? and now, please, if papa will 
 come and read to me, I should like to go to bed.' 
 
 Maude went to call the earl ; and whilst the last gleam of 
 sunlight was fading away, they knelt together and joined in a 
 few short prayers, which were all that Blanche could bear after 
 that day of excitement. Then Maude kissed her, and said, 
 1 Good night,' and the earl lifted her in his arms and carried 
 her to her room. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 MAUDE remained by herself, thinking. At other times 
 she could philosophise upon general principles, abstract 
 theories, the ultimate destinies of mankind ; but there was only 
 one question now for her consideration — the question which must 
 sooner or later be brought before us all — what was to be the ulti- 
 mate destiny of each individual soul — of Blanche, of herself? 
 
 How she longed then for Blanche's simple faith ! the vivid- 
 ness with which she must realise all that belonged to the 
 unseen world, to be able to say so quietly and confidently — 
 ' There will be nothing then to come between me and my 
 Saviour.' 
 
 It was true, actual, as if she had spoken of an earthly friend. 
 And even her fears were natural, neither exaggerated nor ex- 
 cited, only the awe which one so young, and tender, and help- 
 less, could scarcely fail to experience in the first near prospect 
 of entering upon a new existence. 
 
 It was very strange to Maude, a problem she could not solve, 
 for it was not merely the result of education, the having been 
 taught to believe. She had been taught also ; but what to her
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 323 
 
 was an idea, solemn and important, yet still only an idea, was 
 to Blanche an all-absorbing reality. Some real difference there 
 must be between them ; and that not a difference which might 
 safely be borne with, like any other diversity of taste or senti- 
 ment — death was a fact which admitted of no ' halting between 
 two opinions.' If, in order to support the prospect of it, calmly, 
 a life like that of Blanche was necessary, then Maude's dreamy, 
 philosophical speculations and indolent practice, must be dan- 
 gerous. Maude's inherent energy of mind was aroused by the 
 thought. Hitherto, it had been spent in the study of abstruse 
 questions ; now, it was directed to practice. And she had full 
 leisure for consideration — for the twilight sank into darkness, 
 and the darkness was exchanged for the brilliancy of moonlight, 
 and still she was alone with her own thoughts and the awful- 
 ness of the silent night. Lord Rutherford came to her once, 
 but it was only to say that she must not mind being left by 
 herself, for Blanche wanted him ; and Maude knew well what 
 that meant. It was the case every evening. He professed to 
 be with her when Blanche was gone to bed, but he never re- 
 mained for more than a few minutes. If Blanche was wakeful, 
 he sat in her room fancying she would want him ; and if she 
 was asleep, he lingered in the outer apartment, listening for any 
 sound or movement. Since they came to Rutherford he had 
 chosen to sleep in a room close to hers ; but this did not satisfy 
 him, and again and again, in the course of the night, he would 
 steal into her chamber to look at her, as if fearful that during 
 those short hours of absence, death would remove from him 
 without warning the treasure in which his heart delighted. 
 
 The next day was to be the last but one of their stay at 
 Rutherford. Afterwards they were to move by easy stages to 
 the sea-side, as Blanche could bear the journey ; and, if she 
 found herself sufficiently strengthened to endure a further 
 change, it was proposed to take her for about a fortnight to St 
 Ebbe's, that she might pay a parting visit to Mrs Howard 
 before leaving England. So they planned— the earl, Dr Gran- 
 ville, and Maude — when she was called in to the consultation, 
 neither choosing to allow what was in all their thoughts, and 
 satisfying themselves by the expectation that sea-air would 
 bring a respite of the evil day, though it could never work a 
 restoration to health. Blanche gave no voice on the question ; 
 she had but one wish — to do what was considered best. Sub- 
 mission was her last trial of duty, and the little energy which
 
 324 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 remained to her was exercised in disciplining herself into quiet 
 acquiescence with whatever might be deemed beneficial. And 
 there was one part of the projected plan which, as the earl had 
 anticipated when it was formed, reconciled her to it in the 
 whole. Even her love for Rutherford was scarcely equal to the 
 depth of interest and gratitude with which she thought of St 
 Ebbe's. When life is failing, and the future in this world 
 becoming blank, memory returns with affection, tenfold in- 
 creased, to the scenes and the events of the past : and where 
 could Blanche find any recollections so calm, and holy, and 
 bright, as those which were associated with St Ebbe's ? Once 
 more to see it ; once more to see her earliest and truest friend ; 
 once more to thank her for her loving care, her prayers, her 
 counsel ; to tell her, if time should be granted, the short his- 
 tory of those few months — few in number, but infinite in im- 
 portance — which had constituted the actual trial of her young 
 life, and then to die ; — where, when, how — as God in His 
 wisdom should appoint ; that was her last eager wish, the last 
 earthly craving of her heart. 
 
 They were together again, Maude and Blanche, the following 
 morning. Business which the earl could not postpone had 
 called him for an hour away, and Blanche, feeling stronger 
 after her night's rest, was sitting nearly upright on the sofa, 
 with her jewel-case on a little stand by her ; whilst Maude, 
 with a pencil and paper in her hand, was writing down her 
 wishes respecting her ornaments. They were both very quiet 
 and composed ; no one coming into the room would have sup- 
 posed that they were engaged in anything more painful than 
 usual, except at occasional moments, when a torrent of recol- 
 lections rushed upon Blanche as she looked at some present 
 from her father, and putting it aside, would say perhaps that 
 she could not give that away ; she would rather he should keep 
 it as part of herself. 
 
 ' You shall let him have the paper, dear Maude,' she said, 
 when the task was nearly completed. ' He will like to see that 
 it is all done himself, by and by ; though I cannot talk to him 
 about it now. And if there is anything left that I have for- 
 gotten, and he does not know quite what to do with it, will you 
 and Eleanor help him ? for you will be friends with poor 
 Eleanor for my sake, won't you ? ' 
 
 Maude's reply was inarticulate, though she tried to speak. 
 
 ' And one thing more may I say to you, dear Maude ? ' con-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 325 
 
 tinned Blanche, earnestly. ' I long to have it all off my mind 
 this morning, that I may tell Dr Wentworth I have done what 
 he wished when he comes this afternoon.' 
 
 'If you talk much you will not be able to see him/ said 
 Maude, kindly. ' You are quite overworked as it is.' 
 
 ' It will take but a few minutes,' replied Blanche, ' and to- 
 morrow I should like to have quite free, because ' 
 
 ' Yes,' interrupted Maude, quickly ; ' I know. Go on, if you 
 wish it.' 
 
 Blanche waited for an instant. A thought of bitterness was 
 to be struggled with and conquered ; that her father, changed 
 though he was in many ways, shrunk from the idea of being 
 with her when she received the Holy Communion. Presently 
 she said to Maude, ' That was a sad time at Senilhurst. I don't 
 like thinking about it ; but I am afraid sometimes that I must 
 have seemed wrong in what I did, and I know I was cross with 
 you. Won't you give me a kiss, now, and tell me you forgive me ?' 
 
 It was all Maude could do to answer; but she did say, < It 
 was I who was wrong and cross, and want to be forgiven ; ' and 
 then she gave the kiss that was asked, and both were happier. 
 
 ' There is a bracelet for Adelaide in my dressing-case,' said 
 Blanche, after a short pause. ' It is too gay for your taste, 
 Maude ; she will value it, at least I hope she will, by and by, 
 because my aunt gave it me.' 
 
 1 A long by and by that will be,' observed Maude, speaking 
 her thoughts aloud. 
 
 ' Not so long, I hope, as you fancy,' replied Blanche, cheer- 
 fully ; adding in a graver tone, whilst she looked steadily at 
 Maude to see whether she understood her, ' I could almost 
 blame myself sometimes, when I think of the break-up of all 
 your family happiness.' 
 
 ' There never was happiness with us,' replied Maude, with 
 emphasis ; ' never, as far back as I can remember. When I 
 was a child of seven years old, I felt the hollowncss and un- 
 reality of all about me. Nothing that you could have done or 
 said, Blanche, would have made things better than they are.' 
 
 ' I hope not,' replied Blanche ; ' yet even if I could' 
 
 Maude finished her sentence ; ' you would not have been 
 right in yielding ; no, indeed, I feel that : you must be quite 
 assured I do ;' and Maude smiled brightly, and almost sweetly, 
 for even this slight acknowledgment was a weight removed from 
 her mind.
 
 326 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 f If I had given way, I should have been very sorry after- 
 wards,' said Blanche. ' That is one thing for which I have so 
 much cause to thank Mrs Howard, that she taught me in diffi- 
 culties to look at actions as I should look upon them when — 
 when I was as I am now — dying.' 
 
 Maude's face showed, though unconsciously to herself, the 
 pain which any allusion to Blanche's state gave her. 
 
 ' I did not mean to grieve you, dear Maude,' said Blanche, 
 taking her hand affectionately : ' but it is always in my own 
 thoughts, and so I forget that it may not always be in others. 
 And it makes all things so different ; so very, very different. I 
 can't exactly tell you what it is like ; but, in a way, it is as if 
 one had been amusing one's-self with what seemed to be a doll, 
 a plaything, and suddenly, whilst one held it in one's hand, it 
 had started into life, and become a living being. All the past 
 is so awfully real. I feel,' she added, her cheek becoming 
 flushed with excitement, ' I feel that it cannot die with me — 
 that it must live on here — working for good or for evil. That 
 one action, especially, would have been very dreadful, Maude, 
 to think of now ; would it not ? To have been the means of 
 bringing harm upon hundreds ; and to know that, when I was 
 resting in my grave, it would still be spreading. O Maude ! 
 sometimes I think that even Heaven itself could not be Heaven 
 with such a thought.' 
 
 Maude was saved the pain of reply, for Lord Rutherford came 
 into the room. Blanche hastily closed her jewel-case, and wel- 
 coming him with a smile, told him she had been better all the 
 morning, and was better then ; only she had tired herself with 
 giving some directions. 
 
 ' You were unwise to trouble yourself, my darling,' was the 
 earl's reply ; ' trust to Maude and Barnes ; I am sure they will 
 do everything you wish.' 
 
 Blanche was silent. Lord Rutherford's eye accidentally fell 
 upon the paper which Maude had been writing; — it was merely 
 a list of different articles, with names attached to them : but love 
 has a piercing sight ; he understood it in an instant. 
 
 ' I will take it/ he said, holding out his hand as Maude folded 
 (he paper, and was going to put it hurriedly aside. Maude gave 
 it him and left the room. 
 
 Blanche raised her eyes to meet her father's ; he was very 
 pale, but his voice scarcely trembled as he said, ' It shall all be 
 done ; ' and placing the paper carefully in his pocket-book, he 
 walked to the window.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 327 
 
 CHAPTER LI I. 
 
 AND now it was all arranged, all settled, and ordered ; and 
 Blanche had gone through the trying service for which she 
 had been preparing, and said her last words of gratitude to Dr 
 Wentworth, and told him he had comforted her and helped her 
 and begged him to write to her when she was away; and Maude 
 had received every minute direction as to her cousin's wishes, in 
 case she should never return to Rutherford ; and the earl had 
 pleased himself — for the moment it was really a pleasure, 
 though a melancholy one — in contriving everything for the 
 journey, so as to save Blanche, as far as lay in the power of 
 human ingenuity, from the otherwise unavoidable fatigues of a 
 journey. His spirits rather rallied under the pressure of occu- 
 pation ; and a flickering hope began again to burn feebly in his 
 breast. The physician had spoken so confidently of the benefit 
 of sea-air ; he thought it might work an improvement, or it 
 might at least delay the progress of disease ; and Blanche had, 
 undoubtedly, appeared stronger the last few days ; she had 
 borne the preparation for removal much better than any one 
 anticipated. It was a natural delusion, and neither Blanche 
 nor Maude was unwilling to foster it. Boih felt that even a 
 deceitful hope was better, at that moment, than the despairing 
 certainty which would have rendered exertion almost impossible. 
 True, they might under such circumstances have remained at 
 Rutherford ; but Blanche herself was beginning not to wish for 
 this. She thought it likely that the sea-air might invigorate her, 
 and enable her to visit St Ebbe's with something like enjoy- 
 ment ; and she looked forward to the possibility with that last 
 lingering of earthly satisfaction, which even the near prospect 
 of Eternity cannot quench in the bosom of the young. And 
 there was another reason for her wish, very different and wholly 
 unselfish. If she left Rutherford now, there was, she was well 
 aware, no probability of her return. When and where her last 
 moments would be spent, God only knew ; but at least her 
 father would be spared the pain of associating them with his 
 home. He would not watch over her, day by day, and accus- 
 tom himself to see her in the same room, the same position, 
 and then suddenly miss her from her place. Dreary as Ruther- 
 ford would, under any circumstances, be without her, the shock 
 of the separation would be broken by their present removal ;
 
 32 8 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 and her father would not so probably be tempted, as she had 
 sometimes feared he might be, to rush from it in despair ; and 
 again, leaving the sphere of his duties, find refuge in solitary 
 misery abroad. Yet the last evening in that her only real home 
 was a grievous trial, for it was the first step towards the final 
 breaking up of earthly ties which she knew was before her. As 
 she lay upon the sofa by herself, whilst Maude was engaged 
 with her maid in the bedroom, and Lord Rutherford was talk- 
 ing to the steward in his study, she had leisure for thought if 
 she had been sufficiently strong. But she was not ; she could 
 only suffer fancies to pass before her ; she could not control 
 them : they were almost all of one kind — of her father, and 
 her mother — her unhappy, but dearly-cherished mother — the 
 thought of whom seemed to give a resting-place to her human 
 affections, when she fancied to herself the entrance upon another 
 world. Leaving Rutherford seemed almost like deserting the 
 countess's memory. It was the only place in which Blanche 
 had learnt to know her. She wished she could go again into 
 her room, to say farewell, as it were, to that which mostly had 
 belonged to her. It was a strange mixture of feeling ; the 
 vision of her mother, at rest as she believed her to be, and 
 waiting to receive her, was less vivid than the earthly image 
 conjured up by her books and pictures, in the dreary, desolate 
 chamber, which told so truly the history of her life. Sight 
 triumphed over faith, and tears of pity rose to Blanche's eyes ; 
 and all other feelings were forgotten in the intensity of longing 
 that she had been permitted to know her, to live with her and 
 comfort her. That would have changed the whole current of 
 her life ; it might have made her a different person. Yet it 
 must have been, in a measure, a barrier between her and her 
 father ; and Blanche turned away from such a thought, for how 
 dearly she loved him she was just beginning to feel. Oh ! if 
 they could but have been as one ! If now, when about to leave 
 her father alone, she could at least restore to him the peace of 
 mind of which the remembrance of her mother had robbed 
 him ! Then, it seemed, she could die happy, for she would 
 leave him at rest ; and something whispered to her that, if the 
 bitterness of remorse was soothed, his mind would be more 
 open to the principles and hopes of religion. 
 
 Blanche was thinking upon these things when she was aroused 
 by a gentle tap at the door, almost immediately followed by the 
 entrance of Eleanor Wentworth. This was the first day for
 
 THE KARL'S DAUGHTER. 329 
 
 nearly a week that they had met ; and before, they had scarcely 
 been together for more than a quarter of an hour at a time. 
 Mrs Wcntworth's claims upon Eleanor's attention were inces- 
 sant. No one else suited her ; and her disposition, which 
 perhaps in its original nature was exacting, as regarded those 
 she loved, was now become so jealous and excitable, that it was 
 painful to thwart her. It might have been from this cause that 
 Eleanor was altered. Constant watchfulness and anxiety will 
 work sad changes in a very short space of time, and Eleanor's 
 face told a tale of great trial in her daily life. Or there might 
 have been a deeper cause for the alteration — regret and self- 
 reproach for the past, and forebodings of evil to come. The 
 experience of one year had brought memories which must last 
 for life ; and they had robbed her voice of its joyous tone, and 
 had quenched the sparkle of her eye, and subdued the elas- 
 ticity of her step : and when friends pitied her, and her father 
 caressed her, Eleanor would often turn away in apparent cold- 
 ness, but real wretchedness, because she knew that the griefs 
 which excited their compassion were the consequences of her 
 own misconduct. 
 
 It was only with Blanche that she was quite free. Blanche 
 knew everything — all her resolutions and her failings, her tempta- 
 tions and her weakness. She could go back with her to their 
 simple life at St Ebbe's, and recall the serious devotedncss of 
 purpose with -which they had knelt together at their confirma- 
 tion, the earnestness and awe with which they had afterwards 
 received their first Communion, and the energy with which they 
 had entered upon the duties of life — armed by the same coun- 
 sel, and animated by affection for the same freind. How widely 
 since that time their paths had diverged, Eleanor dreaded to 
 think. Blanche, purified and strengthened by illness, was so 
 far removed from herself that she seemed scarcely like a crea- 
 ture of the same sphere. Yet still she understood ; still, even 
 before Eleanor could venture to enter upon the subject of her 
 wanderings from the right path, Blanche seemed, by an intui- 
 tive perception, to comprehend them : and the few hours which 
 they occasionally spent together, were seasons of salutary, though 
 mournful, rest to poor Eleanor's wounded spirit ; and were trea- 
 sured in her recollection, to be prized, she could not yet tell how 
 dearly, when death should have parted them, and there should 
 be no one left to whom she could say, ' So we acted,' or ' So we 
 thought and spoke when we were children.'
 
 330 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 For it was not yet that she could fully understand the danger 
 of Blanche's state. She came into the room that evening look- 
 ing almost happy, merely because Lord Rutherford had told 
 her that Blanche was much better than they could have ex- 
 pected, considering all she had gone through during the day. 
 She had never been accustomed to the fluctuations of consump- 
 tion : and she had heard of persons recovering who were much 
 worse than she imagined Blanche to be ; and, sanguine by 
 nature, she could not divest herself of hope. Her spirits also 
 had for the hour rallied as regarded her home-trials. Her 
 mother seemed tolerably comfortable ; and a penitent, affec- 
 tionate — though melancholy — letter had been received from 
 Charles, which had softened her father's feelings, and melted 
 his indignation into pity. It was this subject which first sug- 
 gested itself when she found that Blanche was able to listen to her. 
 
 ' I would have brought you the letter, dear Blanche,' she said, 
 as she took off her bonnet and sat down by the sofa ; ' but I was 
 afraid you would be too busy and tired to attend to it. I don't 
 know exactly why one should be pleased at what is evidently 
 written very much out of spirits ; but it is the tone which papa 
 and I like. There is so much feeling for us, - and so much 
 thought for poor mamma.' 
 
 ' And Adelaide ! Does she write too ? ' asked Blanche, 
 always ready, even when weakened by illness, to throw herself 
 into the interests of others. 
 
 ' She sends her love in a postscript ; but I am afraid that is 
 only a matter of form. It is about her that Charles is worrying 
 himself. She is just beginning to feel what the privations of a 
 soldier's wife are, where there is no money ; and I am afraid 
 she reproaches him. She need not do that though,' added 
 Eleanor, with some bitterness. ' He has sacrificed as much 
 for her as she has for him.' 
 
 ' They will be happier when they are abroad, I hope,' said 
 Blanche. ' There will not be the same looking back and long- 
 ing for luxuries ; and I think, after a time, my aunt and Sir 
 Hugh will forgive them.' 
 
 ' It is not forgiveness which will make them happy,' said 
 Eleanor, with a heavy sigh. ' Two people utterly unsuited 
 must be miserable, if they had the wealth of Peru at command. 
 That is the real wretchedness, and that is what I reproach my- 
 self for. I knew so well from the very beginning, that they 
 were no more fitted for each other than I am to be Oueen of
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 33 1 
 
 England. I believe, in fact, it was that which deluded me. I 
 fancied that Charles never could be so blind as really to fall in 
 love. But, Blanche, I want to talk of other things now, other 
 people rather.' 
 
 ' Mrs Howard and St Ebbe's ? ' said Blanche, with a smile of 
 interest. 
 
 Eleanor could not smile. She answered sadly, ' Yes, I want 
 to talk of her, and to send a message ; but I don't exactly know 
 what. You must tell her ' 
 
 ' Everything I can think of about you/ said Blanche. ' She 
 will want to know everything.' 
 
 ' I could almost make up my mind to write to her by you,' 
 continued Eleanor ; ' but there is so much that I dread saying. 
 She knows all the facts about me, those I have been forced to 
 mention ; but there are other things. O Blanche ! what would 
 I not give to be you ; to go back to her unchanged ?' 
 
 Blanched stretched out her wasted hand, and said, ' Not 
 quite unchanged.' 
 
 ' No, not unchanged ; you are right : but altered, advanced, 
 beyond, far beyond whatever she would have imagined possible. 
 Do you know, Blanche, there are times when it seems actually 
 impossible that we could ever have been brought up together ; 
 and that my advantages were as great, even greater than yours ? 
 I cannot understand it, till I retrace it all, step by step, and see 
 how I have gone back.' 
 
 < You are always reproaching yourself, dearest,' said Blanche, 
 ' I wish I could feel you were to have happier thoughts, now that 
 I am going away.' 
 
 ' Happier when you are away,' exclaimed Eleanor, and tears 
 filled her eyes : ' that would be impossible ; and then my 
 mother — but we must not talk about her. I am obliged not 
 to think more than I can help ; for you know, Blanche, I cannot 
 deceive myself ; it has been in a great measure my doing ; and 
 that was what I wanted to say to Mrs Howard. I should like 
 her to know the worst ; for she will feel for me, however she 
 may blame me.' 
 
 'And have you not written to her at all, lately?' asked 
 Blanche, with some surprise. 
 
 < Yes, in a certain way ; I have written facts — not the sort of 
 letters she would wish to have, I know. But I could not bring 
 myself to do it. You must tell her, Blanche. You must talk 
 to her for me.'
 
 $22 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Blanche hesitated. ' If I am able,' she said ; 'but I am net 
 going there directly ; and I cannot tell how I may be when I 
 get to St Ebbe's.' 
 
 Eleanor read what was in her mind, though for the moment 
 the thought of her own griefs had absorbed her. ' Blanche,' 
 she said, as she bent down and kissed her, ' wherever you are, 
 and however you may be, you will be happy.' She waited 
 eagerly for the answer, as if it would satisfy some rising doubt 
 in her own mind. 
 
 A smile of inexpressible sweetness passed over Blanche's 
 face, as she replied, ' Yes, quite happy — quite. I had some 
 fears — the dread of loneliness — of what, perhaps, I am to suffer 
 at the last ; but they are going. I do not wish to live.' 
 
 ' Papa does not think you worse,' said Eleanor ; ' and Lord 
 Rutherford says you are better.' 
 
 Blanche smiled. ' Yes, dearest ; and I am not worse : per- 
 haps even I am better. I may linger — I may return ; but it is 
 not probable — scarcely possible. 
 
 'And to part from you now, for ever; to live without you ! ' 
 exclaimed Eleanor, bursting into a passionate flood of tears. 
 ' You are so young : they said you were so strong : there is no 
 consumption in your family.' 
 
 ' I would rather see the truth,' replied Blanche, quietly. ' It 
 is much better for me, for then I can prepare myself ; and you 
 must let me say to-night what I would if I were quite sure of 
 our never meeting again on earth.' 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed Eleanor ; ' I cannot bear it ; I cannot 
 listen to it; and we shall meet again.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, in Heaven. God grant it,' said Blanche, 
 solemnly, and Eleanor buried her face in her hands. Blanche 
 waited for her to speak, but there was neither voice nor sound, 
 save the ticking of the clock, which marked the minutes that 
 were speeding towards eternity. Then Blanche raised herself 
 on the sofa, and said, as she joined her hands together and a 
 flush tinged her ashy check, 'We have often talked of this hour; 
 we have thought what it would be to die. Eleanor, dearest, 
 it is very awful — very real; more real far than anything in life, 
 except prayer and communion with God.' 
 
 ' And that I have neglected,' said Eleanor, without raising 
 her head. 
 
 ' Yes,' continued Blanche, in the same earnest tone, ' you 
 have told me so ; and I have thought about it when I have
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER'. 533 
 
 been lying here alone; and I hoped I might ask you — 1 might 
 beg you — the wishes of the dying arc sacred/ she added, her 
 voice changing into a touching gentleness of entreaty. 
 
 Eleanor rose from her seat, and, kneeling beside her, said, 
 ' Ask me what you will, if only I may be like you.' 
 
 ' I can see — I think I can,' continued Blanche, what has 
 been my own safety, in a measure, as far as I have been safe : 
 — or rather,' she added, correcting herself, ' what has been per- 
 mitted to help me. It was my rule — my order for every day; 
 order in my prayers, I mean ; not leaving them to chance or 
 feeling, but being forced to go at fixed times. It was Mrs 
 Howard's wish that first made me feel that I was forced, and 
 then it became necessary.' 
 
 ' Mrs Howard gave me the rule too,' said Eleanor, humbly, 
 ' but I did not keep it.' 
 
 ' But now, now, for my sake^in memory of me when I am 
 gone. Eleanor, it is my last wish, because I feel that in your 
 case it involves all other duties. Only promise me that once 
 in the day, not merely in the morning and at night, you will 
 pray.' 
 
 And Eleanor kissed her, and answered, ' I will promise ; but 
 I shall never be like you.' 
 
 Blanche sank back, with a smile, as if a weight had been 
 taken from her mind, and after a moment's silence continued, 
 ' And one thing more I would say whilst time is granted me to 
 speak. I would say it rather than write it, because I can speak 
 it more earnestly, more truly, as it should be spoken. I told 
 you I was happy. Eleanor, that does not express what I feel; 
 it is all so strange and overpowering. But there is something 
 beyond happiness — rest, peace, love.' Her dark eyes were 
 lighted up with the sparkling flash of intense feeling, as she 
 added, ' Love which is perfect, satisfying ; the dream of my 
 childhood, which now I have found.' She became very ex- 
 hausted, and Eleanor seeing that her presence was exciting, 
 felt that she must go. But as she stood up to depart it seemed 
 impossible. Blanche motioned to her to sit down again ; 
 Eleanor paused. She went to the table and took up a large 
 morocco case, which she had laid upon it on her first en- 
 trance. 
 
 ' Stay a few minutes longer,' said Blanche ; ' I will not talk.' 
 
 Eleanor approached her; the case was in her hand. 'Hark! 4 
 she said, ' it is six o'clock. My mother will be wanting me.'
 
 334 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Blanche looked up with the impulse to send a message, but a 
 blank, miserable recollection checked her. 
 
 ' She sent her love to you to-day,' continued Eleanor, unable 
 to restrain her tears, ' and ' she held out the case. 
 
 Blanche stretched out her hand, but it was quite powerless ; 
 and she could only say in a feeble tone, ' Open it.' 
 
 1 I will leave it with you,' said Eleanor, ' it is ' 
 
 ' Yes, I know ; open it — let me see it.' 
 
 And Eleanor touched the spring, and revealed the bright, 
 lovely features of the young Countess of Rutherford. The 
 mother and the child ; — how like ! and yet how different ! As 
 Blanche motioned to Eleanor to place the picture near her, and 
 Eleanor's eye wandered from one to the other, she could almost 
 have supposed that the tale of each sweet face had been 
 reversed ; that the radiant beauty displayed by the artist was 
 the image of Blanche just entering upon the world's enjoy- 
 ments ; and that the worn, sunk features of the gentle girl were 
 the signs of the life of sorrow about to find repose in death. 
 
 Blanche gazed at the picture long and silently. ' Thank 
 her,' she said at length to Eleanor, in a trembling voice, ' very 
 much. Tell her — you know how I value it.' 
 
 ' It should have been yours before, dearest,' said Eleanor. 
 
 ' No, no ; it is in time. It will do its work ; ' and turning 
 away her head, she murmured, ' he has made me happy, and 
 she will forgive.' 
 
 Eleanor drew near to say good-bye. 
 
 ' God bless you, Eleanor, my own precious Eleanor ; and 
 keep you safe. Think of me when you pray — in church — 
 always ; ' and Eleanor could only answer by sobs, and the 
 half-uttered, delusive hope that they might meet again. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 WHY should we linger so fondly over the last hours of the 
 dying : — why should we delight to dwell upon the form, 
 and lineaments, and expression of that which is now so loved, 
 and valued, but which soon must be hidden from our sight ? — 
 why should we treasure up each word and tone to be recalled 
 in the hour of desolation, and pierce with a deeper anguhh the
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 33$ 
 
 he;irl that already is crushed to the dust ? We are but adding 
 to our grief : yet we would rather cherish it than part from it ; 
 for it is dearer than happiness, more precious than joy, since it 
 is instinct with the hopes of immortality. It is a grief, how- 
 ever, which needs no description. We have but to ask our 
 own hearts ; and, even if the dread experience has as yet been 
 spared us, we can tell all the outward forms which it must 
 assume. That last departure from Rutherford, who cannot 
 picture it? The momentary excitement — the struggle of con- 
 flicting feelings — of dying hope, and ever-present fear — the 
 petty cares and ordinary trials of a journey, and the never- 
 ceasing anxiety and dread felt through all, lest the change 
 should have been made too late. 
 
 The earl hoped, even then ; though he thought he did not. 
 If he had not hoped, he never would have taken Blanche 
 away, for he saw at last how much it cost her. The pain of 
 fatigue she could not hide, though the pain of regret she could. 
 There is something in the very name of home inexpressibly 
 dear to us when we are very ill ; and Blanche's home, not- 
 withstanding all her disappointments, had been a very happy 
 one. But she left it without a word of complaint, or expres- 
 sion of sorrow ; only with a few silent tears, as she looked for 
 the last time on the window of her mother's chamber, and 
 raised herself to smile a farewell to Eleanor, who, unable to 
 leave Mrs Wentworth as she had anticipated, was standing at 
 the rectory gate to see her pass. 
 
 But that parting was over, and the journey was borne with 
 tolerable ease ; and Blanche reached the place of her destina- 
 tion, and felt the freshness of the sea-breeze, and saw the 
 sparkling of the bright waters beneath a brilliant noon-day sun ; 
 and, strengthened for a few days, seemed to enjoy her daily 
 drive and the novelty of the view, and thought — yes, still she 
 thought, and knew — that she was dying. 
 
 Yet days went by as before. Habits and customs, and old 
 familiar ways and interests, crowd around us, even to the last : 
 and in the spacious mansion, where, provided with every luxury 
 of refinement, guarded from every blast, shaded from every in- 
 truding glare, Blanche was learning to prepare herself for 
 heaven, there was a common life of vexing thoughts and 
 worldly occupations pressing forward, eager, hopeful, save 
 when it approached tb£ sick chamber of her upon whose young
 
 336 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 
 
 brow was written the doom of all earthly beauty, ' passing 
 away.' * 
 
 There all was stilled as in the presence of an angel visitant. 
 For it grew, day by day, even hour by hour, the pure ethereal 
 beauty of that heaven-born spirit which is the portion of God's 
 elect. When Blanche had put aside her few earthly cares, she 
 was able to fix her thoughts steadily upon eternity. The world 
 to which she was hastening became her home, and though her 
 perceptions were dim, and her anticipations vague, she could 
 still dwell upon some certainties, before which all earthly joys 
 faded into nothingness. 
 
 She would be sinless there and at rest ; — at rest in the presence 
 of her Saviour ; and the blessedness of that hope none can tell 
 but they to whom every earthly affection is secondary. It was 
 no dream to Blanche, that the love of God alone can satisfy the 
 human heart ; it was a fact, taught by each day's experience. 
 The Being to whom she could turn in every trial, however slight ; 
 the Friend whose presence she always felt ; the love which could 
 never change, even with the changes of her own weak, unstable 
 heart, — were realities, beneath which her sinking spirit reposed as 
 beneath ' the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.' When 
 the terror of death overwhelmed her, she turned to them with an 
 unutterable sense of safety and relief; whilst every trifling com- 
 fort and every moment of ease were regarded as the sure pledges 
 of that untiring watchfulness which, if it guarded her so care- 
 fully in life, could never leave her lonely in death. 
 
 And it was not trust merely that Blanche felt. Trust is our 
 faith in a Power; love is our devotion to a Person. She had 
 trusted all her life, and she had loved too, more than she knew. 
 Now she was beginning to comprehend her own heart, to under- 
 stand its yearnings after perfection, its cravings for a fulness of 
 affection which she had been told could be found on earth, but 
 which she had often feared might, if it satisfied her, border upon 
 idolatry. She could not envy others, even with the purest pros- 
 pects of this world's happiness. She had found ' the pearl of 
 
 * ' From ihe stars of heaven and the flowers of earth. 
 From the pageant of power and the voice of mirth, 
 From the mists of morn on the mountain's hrow, 
 From childhood's song and affection's vow— 
 From all, save that o'er which soul bears sway, 
 Breathes but one record— passing away.' 
 
 — Mrs Heman*.
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 337 
 
 great price,' and the wealth of the universe would have been 
 worthless in its exchange. 
 
 Lord Rutherford saw that she was happy, and even in the 
 midst of his anguish he could not be insensible to the comfort ; 
 yet the sight of ' the peace which passeth understanding ' was 
 often goading to his self-reproach, since it seemed to widen the 
 gulf that separated him and his child. 
 
 He was alone with Blanche, one evening, about a fortnight 
 after their removal from Rutherford, and she was speaking to 
 him of St Ebbe's, and of her wish to go there soon, and saying 
 that she was becoming anxious about it, for the distance was not 
 very great ; — she thought they might return if — she paused, 
 and then finished her sentence firmly — if she should live. 
 
 He did not shrink from her words ; but, as he fondly smoothed 
 her hair, replied, that he did not see she was worse, but he was 
 afraid she must be. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, she knew that she was worse, for she was 
 weaker ; and she had spoken to Dr Granville, and asked what 
 he thought about her going to St Ebbe's, and he had told her 
 that if she really wished it so very much he could not say no, but 
 he would not advise it. ' I will not urge it, if you don't like it, 
 dear papa,' she added ; ' but Mrs Howard could only come to 
 me for one night, without great difficulty, and ' 
 
 The earl interrupted her, ' Wish it, my child ! my wishes 
 against yours ! ' 
 
 ' They ought to be against mine,' said Blanche, ' if you like 
 it; but you have always been so kind; you have spoiled me, and 
 now I am bent upon my own way.' She spoke lightly and play- 
 fully, as she might have done months before. It was the voice 
 more than the words which touched the weak chord of the earl's 
 heart, and made the tears gather in his eyes. 
 
 '.You have quite spoiled me,' continued Blanche, in the same 
 tone ; but it changed the next moment, for her father was leaning 
 his head against her pillow in silent wretchedness. ' You must 
 let me thank you,' she said. ' By and by, you will like to think 
 of me as happy always — happy in my life with you, and very — 
 very happy in my rest.' 
 
 He raised his head and kissed her, and sank back into the 
 same posture. 
 
 Blanche considered for a few moments, and then she con- 
 tinued : ' Being ill has been a comfort to me in many ways : 
 because we have been so much together, and we have been 
 
 v
 
 338 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 able to read the same books, and have liked the same things ; 
 and you will' always like them now, dear papa ; won't you, for 
 my sake ? ' 
 
 Lord Rutherford could only press her hand ; he had not 
 words to answer. 
 
 ' I have enjoyed so very much your reading to me every day,' 
 continued Blanche ; ' and it seems strange now, that I should 
 ever have been afraid of asking you ; but I know that, when I 
 first came home, I should have felt quite frightened if I had 
 been told to do it. Things have changed very much since 
 then.' 
 
 ' Yes : ' replied the earl, in a hollow voice ; ' they have 
 indeed.' 
 
 ' And changed to make us happier too,' said Blanche, with a 
 little hesitation. ' It would have been much worse to part then, 
 than it is now.' 
 
 ' No, no,' exclaimed the earl. ' If I had never known you, 
 Blanche — if you were only a child whom I had scarcely 
 
 ' We might have loved each other less,' said Blanche > 
 ' but we could never have thought of parting with the same 
 peace.' 
 
 'Peace ! ' repeated the earl, bitterly. ' Peace for me ! ' and 
 then, as he again buried his face in his hands, he murmured, 
 ' There is no peace but for the innocent.' 
 
 'Papa, my own dear papa!' said Blanche, in a tone of 
 gentle reproach, as she forced him to move his head, and look 
 at her. 
 
 ' I am right,' he answered, moodily. ' Peace is for you, my 
 child ; and for you I can accept it, and be thankful.' 
 
 ' It would not be my peace,' said Blanche, ' if it was not 
 yours too.' 
 
 ' Then it can belong to neither of us,' exclaimed the earl ; 
 ' unless a new power is given to mortals to blot out the past.' 
 
 ' It must be blotted out for us all,' replied Blanche, ' before 
 we can find peace.' 
 
 ' I know what you would say,' replied the earl. ' I have 
 heard all that divines can preach ; and have read their books, 
 and thought about them, too. But, Blanche, my child, let it be 
 even as they say ; let forgiveness be granted from heaven, let 
 there be no reckoning of our offences before God ; — still, still 
 there is memory. Memory,' he repeated to himself, 'that mock-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 339 
 
 ing fiend ! Blanche, when you are gone from me, who will 
 give me peace ? ' 
 
 Blanche paused — presently she said, ' Papa, if I could 
 come back to you and tell you I was happy, would you not 
 be so ? ' 
 
 The earl looked at her with a faint smile. 
 
 ' If you could see me,' continued Blanche, l and knew that I 
 had no wish to return to earth, and that my home was brighter 
 than even you could desire to make it ; and that I was with 
 mamma ; and that she loved you dearly, and was longing for 
 you to come to her ; and if there was a place ready for you — 
 a place in Paradise — in rest ; would it not be peace then ? ' 
 Lord Rutherford averted his head. ' It is there,' continued 
 Blanche, her feeble tones becoming more earnest ; < I see it 
 in my dreams, when I am by myself alone in the twilight. 
 It is a home for us all, and you will come to me ; and 
 
 He turned quickly, and caught her hand ; and, in a voice 
 convulsed with emotion, said, < Tell her I have repented ; ask 
 her to forgive me.' 
 
 Blanche made no immediate reply ; but drew towards her 
 the case containing her mother's picture, which was laid on the 
 sofa by her side, and touching the spring, showed the sunny 
 smile, the beauty of youth, and joy, and hope, on which the 
 shadow of harshness or reproach seemed as if it could not for a 
 moment rest. 
 
 ' Look ! papa,' she said, as she threw her arms around 
 him. ' You have made her child happy, and does not she 
 forgive ? ' 
 
 Lord Rutherfoid took the picture from her. Blanche watched 
 him anxiously. She saw the furrowed brow bent in anguish, 
 and the mouth quiver and the dark eye become dim ; and then, 
 large, scalding drops fell slowly down the earl's cheeks, and 
 pressing the picture to his lips, he exclaimed, passionately, .' God 
 bless and keep you both for ever ; ' and left the room. 
 
 Blanche missed the picture from that evening, and she never 
 asked for it again.
 
 340 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 ONCE more it was towards the close of a summer's day in 
 the quaint garden of the manor house of St Ebbe's : and 
 long shadows fell upon the lawn, and marked the hours on 
 the dial-plate as they fleeted by ; and the heavy tones of the 
 great cathedral clock resounded solemnly from afar, and 
 mingled with, and subdued the cheerful voices of children at 
 their play. 
 
 Once more ! oh, many and many a time afterwards might 
 the gladness of the day melt gently into the stillness of night ; 
 and the loveliness of nature's repose give rest to the weary 
 heart ; and the lightness of childish glee echo merrily amidst 
 the old gray walls ; but never again would Blanche Evelyn 
 rejoice in the rush of early memories which thronged around 
 her, as she looked from the window of her own chamber on the 
 first evening of her arrival at St Ebbe's. 
 
 She could indeed rejoice — most happy amongst the happy — 
 most blessed amongst the blest. With her father to watch over 
 her, and smile mournfully, yet with the sweetness of a hope 
 better than that of life ; and Mrs Howard to sit by her and 
 talk to her ; and Maude to busy herself in the arrangements 
 which now were so necessary to her comfort ; that first evening 
 was one of quiet, full contentment to herself — what it was to 
 others we need not raise the veil which hides the bitterness of 
 mortal grief to describe. 
 
 The first meeting had been a great shock to Mrs Howard, 
 much greater than she dared express. She was not at all pre- 
 pared for Blanche's extreme weakness ; for letters seldom really 
 describe in detail, and it is only by details that those well 
 practised in the sad scenes of illness can tell the real state. 
 Lord Rutherford had said she seemed rather better ; Maude 
 had written to make preparation, as if she would be able to 
 sit up a great deal, and even to drive out ; and Blanche, 
 herself, had expressed the utmost delight at the prospect 
 of her visit, though she said plainly that she felt it must be 
 her last. 
 
 They were all then deluding themselves ; looking forward to 
 months ! Mrs Howard, when she saw her, could not hope for 
 weeks. Yet she met Blanche calmly and cheerfullv ; congra-
 
 THE EARLS DAUGHTER. 341 
 
 tulnled Lord Rutherford on her having borne the journey so 
 well ; and suffered her to talk as long as she could about all 
 that had passed ; and then, when Blanche at length went to 
 bed, quite worn out, Mrs Howard retired to her own room, to 
 find comfort in solitude for that heavy aching of the heart 
 which could not even obtain relief from tears. 
 
 This state of things continued for a few days ; at least Lord 
 Rutherford fancied that it did. He did not know every 
 symptom of the complaint ; and he had been so accustomed 
 lately to its changes, that he was almost beginning to think 
 little of them. Blanche was more feverish, he thought — but 
 that he attributed to excitement — and he urged Mrs Howard to 
 keep her more quiet ; and Mrs Howard, complying with his 
 request, would take her work and sit in the room, and intend 
 not to talk. But the intention could not easily be kept — there 
 was so much to say and to hear ; and Blanche felt so inexpres- 
 sibly relieved when she could unburthen herself of the accumu- 
 lated weight of anxieties which had grown up since they had 
 parted, and be assured that she had acted under them well and 
 wisely. It was such a comfort, too, to speak of her father, and 
 point out the indications of his change of mind, on which she 
 so fondly dwelt ; and to find that Mrs Howard viewed them as 
 she did herself. She tried to be quiet and unexcited, and for 
 hours she would lie perfectly still from weakness ; but some 
 thought or recollection would then strike her, and conversation 
 began, almost unawares, again. This was injurious to her ; but 
 it mattered little. Perfect repose, both of body and mind, 
 could scarcely have retarded the progress of a disease which, 
 by trifling variations and imperceptible changes in its symptoms, 
 too surely bore the mandate of approaching death. 
 
 No one saw it but Mrs Howard. How she endured the cer- 
 tainty, without distressing others by her own convictions, she 
 could never comprehend, except by referring her calmness to 
 the support which is always sent when it is needed. Her love 
 for Blanche was no common feeling ; it had in it the strength 
 of her long attachment to the Countess of Rutherford, and of 
 the entire devotion of a mother to Blanche during her child- 
 hood ; and the year which had parted them, though it had been 
 full of incident and change to herself, had never separated them 
 in thought. Still it had been her proud desire to see Blanche 
 in her own home, shedding far around the light and charm of 
 her goodness, and her beauty ; and even when she said to her-
 
 342 THE EARDS DAUGHTER. 
 
 self that all was better as it was — that Blanche might have 
 sunk under the great temptations to which she was exposed ; 
 or, even if she had conquered them, might eventually have 
 fallen a prey to the morbid depression of spirits which had so 
 often shown itself in her mother's family — yet it was hard, 
 really, to feel the truth of her own words. She knew it was 
 best that Blanche should go — it was the appointment of Infinite 
 Love ; and it could not be other than merciful. Yet how was 
 the parting to be endured ? 
 
 They had been together about a week, and during that time 
 Blanche had taken two drives, which seemed, however, to fatigue 
 her ; and Lord Rutherford therefore said, she had better wait 
 till the weather was a little cooler. So she remained in the 
 house, and tried to read a little, but her eyes were weak, and it 
 was a trouble to her to hold a book in her hand. Lord Ruther- 
 ford read to her occasionally, but she could not listen long ; 
 and for the last two days she had found it as much as she 
 could bear to attend during the daily visits of the clergyman — 
 the rector who had prepared her for confirmation. Her father 
 was generally with her at these times, for she was not able to 
 be left alone ; and she liked him to kneel by her side, holding her 
 hand in his, and repeating the prayers with her. He scarcely 
 ever spoke more than was quite necessary, but he never seemed 
 impatient or wearied ; and Blanche could perceive a marked 
 change in the tone in which he said the Confession. It was 
 earnest and humble, as if it was a relief to him to join in it. 
 
 Blanche was quite sure that his feelings about religion were 
 very different from what they had been ; but she did not dare 
 talk to him about them ; and she could not ask him why he had 
 altered so much since the day of their short conversation, when 
 she had shown him the countess's picture. She fancied that 
 perhaps he really felt now that her mother had forgiven him ; 
 and with that load of remorse and despair taken from his mind, 
 she hoped he might shrink less from the thought of receiving 
 the Holy Communion with her. She could scarcely realise the 
 comfort that would be to them both ; but she did not know how 
 to approach the subject. It was difficult to tell whether she 
 might or ought. He had neglected it, she feared, for so many 
 years ; though she knew that, as a very young man, he had been 
 accustomed to receive it regularly; and once he had alluded to 
 it and sighed, as if those were better and happier times than ye 
 could ever expect to return. She said something to Mrs Howard
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 343 
 
 about it, and hoped that through her it might be named to the 
 rector ; and that he would suggest what she might do. But 
 one or two days slipped by, and there were some reasons 
 delay ; and when the rector called again, Blanche was not able 
 to see him. She was much later that morning than usual in 
 waking, for she had scarcely slept at all during the early part 
 of the night. Mrs Howard thought she had better not leave 
 her bed, but she was anxious to be dressed, for she thought she 
 should be more comfortable ; and they brought her into the 
 sitting-room in the afternoon, and laid her on the sofa, which 
 was drawn in front of the window. Lord Rutherford was to 
 have gone into the town in the afternoon ; but she looked so 
 ill, that he did not like to leave her, even for half an hour, and 
 he sat in the room with her, writing ; for she could not listen 
 to reading. The house was kept very quiet, and Mrs Howard 
 and Maude were by themselves a great part of the time, for 
 they were afraid to disturb her by having too many in the room. 
 They did not go to her till it was growing late; and, when they 
 opened the door, Lord Rutherford was reading one of the 
 prayers from the Visitation Service ; and they closed it again 
 very softly, and went away. Blanche had borne that so well 
 that the earl thought he might venture to talk to her, and he 
 kissed her, and said, it had been a bad day, but he hoped they 
 should have a better one to-morrow. 
 
 Blanche smiled doubtfully. ' Yes/ she replied ; it had been 
 a bad day in many ways, but it had been very quiet, and she 
 had not been suffering pain, except a little occasionally, and she 
 was very glad to be able to be dressed and come into the sitting- 
 room once more. 'I don't think I shall come in to-morrow,' 
 she added. 
 
 The earl turned pale ; < I am glad to see the sun set again,' 
 continued Blanche, ' because I was always so fond of it — the 
 sunset here especially. Papa, it was just at this very time in 
 the evening last year, that you came; do you recollect it?' 
 
 Poor Lord Rutherford ! what would he not have given to 
 have been able to forget ? 
 
 ' You will remember that sunset was my favourite time, won't 
 you?' said Blanche ; 'and that it always seemed to me, when 
 I was a child — and even sometimes it does now — as if it was 
 part of Heaven, and as if all the forms of the clouds were real 
 things, mountains and lakes. It is very bright and beautiful 
 this evening,' she added, gazing on it intently.
 
 344 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 'We may hope to have many like it, at this time of the year,' 
 said the earl, in a tone which was fearfully calm. 
 
 ' Yes, I hope you will have a great many,' continued Blanche; 
 ' and you must not let them make you sad, dear papa ; but you 
 must think they are the pictures of my home — our home,' she 
 added, correcting herself. 
 
 The earl compressed his lips firmly together, and Blanche 
 felt his hand tremble. 
 
 ' You will take me back to Rutherford, I know,' she said, 
 after a pause, seeing that he could not trust himself to speak ; 
 ' and perhaps, by and by, you will be pleased to think that I am 
 lying near you, when you are in church, as I used to think of 
 mamma. And one thing, may I say it ? I cannot bear to 
 pain you,' and she kissed his forehead, and waited till he said, 
 ' Go on.' 
 
 'One thing I have a fancy about. I should not like anything 
 grand to be put upon my coffin, only my name and the date, and 
 a cross.' She waited to take breath, for the exertion of much 
 speaking was very trying. 
 
 'Anything else ? tell me all,' said the earl. He was summon- 
 ing every effort to remain calm, for he knew now what these 
 last wishes foreboded. 
 
 ' I should be glad to feel that you would not go away from 
 Rutherford,' said Blanche; even then shrinking from that which 
 might appear dictating to him. ' I like to fancy that you will 
 be near where I am resting ; and I should feel that all the poor 
 people whom I care about would be thought of; and that Dr 
 Wentworth would have some one to help him in what he wants 
 to do in the parish. Perhaps by and by you would try and 
 remember me to some of the old persons I used to visit, and to 
 poor Susannah Dyer. I wrote their names down one day to 
 give to you. Maude has the paper.' 
 
 ' Is that all ? ' said the earl. 
 
 ' Yes, all ; except the directions I gave before I left home, 
 and ' — she pointed to her Bible, from which the carl had been 
 accustomed to read to her. ' It was given to me by Mrs Howard, 
 on the day of my confirmation,' she said ; ' will you keep it and 
 love it ? and ' 
 
 ' Read it ? ' said the carl, earnestly ; ' Yes ; that indeed I 
 may promise.' 
 
 ' It is marked,' continued Blanche. ' I think you will under- 
 stand the marks. I have put the date to some of the lessons
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 345 
 
 which you have read to me ; and there is my Prayer-Book 
 also ; the Psalms I like best for prayers are marked in that.' 
 She feebly turned the pages, till the book was opened at the 
 office for the Holy Communion. It was headed by a date of 
 the preceding year. ' The day of my first Communion,' she 
 said, pointing to it ; and as the earl bent down to look nearer, 
 or, possibly to hide the feelings which were visible in his face, 
 she added, ' will you mark it with the date of the last ? to- 
 morrow, if it may be.' 
 
 ' To-morrow ! Blanche, my precious, precious child ; I can- 
 not part with you. God forgive me ! Oh grant that I mas- 
 bear it ! ' 
 
 Blanche would not let him give way. She said he must not ; 
 it would be wrong now when they had such infinite comfort ; 
 when they were one — one whatever might happen. The next 
 Communion might not be the last ; but she thought it would ; 
 and she was going to ask him to write to the rector, and fix it 
 decidedly. It had been left a little uncertain on the preceding 
 day. The earl seized some note-paper, and began to write. 
 Blanche put out her hand to stop him. Her look was so 
 anxious, so pleading, that he threw aside his pen, and knelt 
 beside her. ' Together,' said Blanche, and in her agitation, she 
 gasped for breath ; ' for the first and last time together.' And 
 as the earl bent his head upon her hand his answer was, ' Pray 
 forme, that I may not be rejected.' 
 
 Blanche was taken early to her bed that evening, for she 
 was very much weakened, and in some pain, and her breath- 
 ing was very short. Lord Rutherford sat up with her, and 
 Mrs Howard. Till this sudden change it had been sufficient 
 to have a servant sleeping in the room. The earl looked ill and 
 worn, but no one thought of advising him to go to rest. 
 
 Blanche was very restless all the night, and they could not 
 quiet her in any way ; though sometimes Mrs Howard said a 
 verse of a Psalm to her, and she appeared to like it. She 
 scarcely spoke, except to ask for a little tea ; but she was quite 
 sensible, and smiled at her father when he came up to her, and 
 followed him with her eyes when he turned away ; and, at last, 
 after he had been trying to settle her more comfortably, she 
 laid her head on the pillow, resting on his arm, and fell asleep 
 with her hand clasped in his. 
 
 She slept in this way for about an hour and a half, and 
 woke as if startled. Lord Rutherford was in the room with
 
 346 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 her alone. There was a change ; he saw that directly, and 
 rang the bell. 
 
 Blanche looked up eagerly, and tried to say something, and 
 the earl bent down to catch the words : ' Will he come ? Will 
 there be time, do you think ? ' she asked. 
 
 The earl hesitated for an instant. Then he answered, with 
 perfect composure : ' We can send, and he will come at any 
 moment ; ' and Blanche joined her thin hands, and said, 
 ' Thank God,' and sank quietly back on the pillow. 
 
 It was but half an hour from that time, and the Service for 
 the Communion of the Sick was celebrated in Blanche's dying 
 chamber, Mrs Howard, Maude, and Lord Rutherford kneeling 
 by her bed. 
 
 And it was over — and Lord Rutherford knelt still ; and 
 Blanche's eyes closed, and her lips moved in prayer. A few 
 minutes passed of peace unutterable ; and then Blanche faintly 
 smiled upon Mrs Howard and Maude ; and tried to press her 
 father's hand, and whispered : ' Papa, good bye.' The earl 
 raised his head, but she never spoke again. 
 
 Long, long he remained listening to the faint, scarcely per- 
 ceptible breathing, until at length there was a gentle sigh, — 
 and the stillness of death rested upon the features of his darling 
 child. 
 
 They laid her to rest by her mother's side, in the vault be- 
 neath the chapel of the Evelyns, in the old church of Ruther- 
 ford. There, not many years afterwards, reposed the mortal 
 remains of one who, if a deep repentance can avail to obtain 
 mercy, most surely carried with him to his grave the pardon ot 
 God, as well as the blessing of man. 
 
 Lord Rutherford never left his home for more than a few 
 months, when he returned to it after Blanche's death. If am- 
 bition, or indolence, or the love of pleasure had charms for him, 
 they were sacrificed in the service of the Master to whom, 
 though late, he had devoted himself. 
 
 His memory is still cherished amongst his people. They 
 talk of his truth and uprightness, his thoughtfulness and liber- 
 ality, his piety and consistency ; and if they say that he was 
 cold in manner and solitary in his habits, they know that he 
 lived in spirit with the dead, and they marvel not that he had 
 few affections left to devote to the living. Even now, when his 
 castle is the possession of another, they point out the terrace 
 where he used to walk — sometimes with Maude, the only per-
 
 THE EARL'S DAUGHTER. 347 
 
 son who was ever known to visit him in his retirement, but 
 oftener alone — watching the golden sunset intently, as if it was a 
 reality of Heaven rather than a dream of earth ; and when they 
 point to the escutcheon of his earthly glory, and sigh over the 
 honours of a race extinct, there are many to pray that, like the 
 last Earl of Rutherford, they may one day rest in the " sure 
 and certain hope" of "those who sleep in Jesus." 
 
 THE END, 
 
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 Mahaffy's Classical Greek Literature. Crown 8vo. Vol. 1, The Poets, 7*. Gd. 
 
 Vol. 2, The Prose Writers, 7*. Gd. 
 Plato's Parmenides, with Notes, &c. by J. Maguire. 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Sophocles' Tragcedire Superstites, by Linwood. 8vo. 16s. 
 Virgil's Works, Latin Text, with Commentary, by Kennedy. Crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 — iEneid, translated into English Verse, by Conington. Crown 8vo. 9*. 
 
 — Poems, — — — Prose, — — Crown 8vo. 9*. 
 Witt's Myths of Hellas, translated by F. M. Younghusband. Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 — The Trojan War, — — Fcp. 8vo. 2*. 
 
 — The Wanderings of Ulysses, — Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 NATURAL HISTORY, BOTANY, &. GARDENING. 
 
 Allen's Flowers and their Pedigrees. Crown 8vo. Woodcuts, 5*. 
 Decai3ne and Le Maout's General System of Botany. Imperial 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 Dixon's Rural Bird Life. Crown 8vo. Illustrations, 5*. 
 Hartwig's Aerial World, 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 — Polar World, 8vo. 10*. 6<f. 
 
 — Sea and its Living Wonders. 8vo. 10*. Sd. 
 
 — Subterranean World, 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 Tropical World, 8vo. 10*. 6tf. 
 
 Lindley's Treasury of Botany. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 Loudon's Encyclopaedia of Gardening. 8vo. 21*. 
 
 — — Plants. 8vo. 42*. 
 Rivers's Orchard House. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 — Rose Amateur's Guide. Fcp. 8vo. 4*. Gd. 
 
 — Miniature Fruit Garden. Fcp. 8vo. 4*. 
 Stanley's Familiar History of British Birds. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Wood's Bible Animals. With 112 Vignettes. 8vo. 10*. 6d. 
 
 — Common British Insects. Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 — Homes Without Hands, 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 — Insects Abroad, 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 — Horse and Man. 8vo. 14*. 
 
 — Insects at Home. With 700 Illustrations. 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 — Out of Doors. Crown 8 vo. 5*. 
 
 — Petland Revisited. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6rf. 
 
 — Strange Dwellings. Crown 8vo. 5*. Popular Edition, 4to. Gd. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO.
 
 General Lists of Works. 
 
 THE FINE ARTS AND ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS. 
 
 Dresser's Arts and Art Manufactures of Japan. Square crown 8vo. 31*. 6d. 
 Eastlake's Household Taste in Furniture, &c. Square crown 8vo. 14*. 
 Jameson's Sacred and Legendary Art. 6 vols, square 8vo. 
 Legends of the Madonna. 1 vol. 21*. 
 
 — — — Monastic Orders 1 vol. 21s. 
 
 — — — Paints and Martyrs. 2 vols. 31*. Gd. 
 
 _ _ __ Saviour. Completed by Lady Eastlake. 2 vols. 42*. 
 Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Home, illustrated by Scharf. Fcp. 4to. 10*. Gd. 
 The same, with Ivry and the Armada, illustrated by Weguelin. Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 Moore's Lalla Rookh, illustrated by Tenniel. Square crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 New Testament (The) illustrated with Woodcuts after Paintings by the Early 
 
 Masters. 4to. 21*. cloth, or 42*. morocco. 
 Perry on Greek and Roman Sculptnre. With 280 Illustrations engraved on 
 
 Wood. Square crown 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 
 CHEMISTRY, ENGINEERING, 8c GENERAL SCIENCE. 
 
 Arnott's Elements of Physics or Natural Philosophy. Crown 8vo. 12*. Gd. 
 Bourne's Catechism of the Steam Engine. Crown 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 — Examples of Steam, Air, and Gas Engines. 4to. TO*. 
 
 — Handbook of the Steam Engine. Fcp. 8vo. 9*. 
 
 — Recent Improvements in the Steam Engine. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treatise on the Steam Engine. 4to. 42*. 
 
 Buckton's Our Dwellings, Healthy and Unhealthy. Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 Crookes's Select Methods in Chemical Analysis. 8vo. 24*. 
 
 Culley's Handbook of Practical Telegraphy. 8vo. 16*. 
 
 Fairbairn's Useful Information for Engineers. 3 vols, crown 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 
 — Mills and Millwork. 1 vol. 8vo. 25*. 
 Ganot's Elementary Treatise on Phvsics, by Atkinson. Large crown 8vo. 15*. 
 
 Natural Philosophy, by Atkinson. Crown 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 
 Grove's Correlation of Physical Forces. 8vo. 15*. 
 
 Haughton's Six Lectures on Physical Geography. 8vo. 15*. 
 
 Heer's Primasval World of Switzerland. 2 vols. 8vo. 12*. 
 
 Helmholtz on the Sensations of Tone. Royal 8vo. 28*. 
 
 Helmholtz's Lectures on Scientific Subjects. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 7*. Gd. each.- 
 
 Hudson and Gosse's The Rotifera or ' Wheel Animalcules.' With 30 Coloured 
 
 Plates. 6 parts. 4to. 10*. Gd. each. 
 Hullah's Lectures on the History of Modern Music. 8vo. 8*. Gd. 
 
 — Transition Period of Musical History. 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 Jackson's Aid to Engineering Solution. Royal 8vo. 21*. 
 
 Jago's Inorganic Chemistry, Theoretical and Practical. Fcp. 8vo. 2*. 
 Kerf's Metallurgy, adapted by Crookes and Rbhrig. 3 vols. 8vo. £4. 19*. 
 Kolbe's Short Text-Book of Inorganic Chemistry. Urown 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 Lloyd's Treatise on Magnetism. 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 Macalister's Zoology and Morphology of Vertebrate Animals. 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 Macfarren's Lectures on Harmony. 8vo. 1 2*. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GEEEN, & CO.
 
 8 General Lists of Works. 
 
 Miller's Elements of Chemistry, Theoretical and Practical. 3 vols. 8vo. Part I. 
 Chemical Physics, 16*. Part II. Inorganic Chemistry, 24*. Part III. Organic 
 Chemistry, price 31*. Gd. 
 
 Mitchell's Manual of Practical Assaying. 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 
 Northcott's Lathes and Turning. 8vo. 18*. 
 
 Owen's Comparative Anatomy and Physiology of the Vertebrate Animals. 
 3 vols. 8vo. 73*. Gd. 
 
 Payen's Industrial Chemistry. Edited by B. H. Paul, Ph.D. 8vo. 42*. 
 
 Piesse's Art of Perfumery. Square crown 8vo. 21*. 
 
 Kejnolds's Experimental Chemistry. Fcp. 8vo. Part I. 1*. 6</. Part II. 2*. Gd. 
 Part III. 3*. Gd. 
 
 Schellen's Spectrum Analysis. 8vo. 31*. Gd. 
 
 Sennett's Treatise on the Marine Steam Engine. 8vo. 21*. 
 
 Smith's Air and Rain. 8vo. 24*. 
 
 Stoney's The Theory of the Stresses on Girders, &c. Royal 8vo. 36*. 
 
 Swinton's Electric Lighting : Its Principles and Practice. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 Tilden's Practical Chemistry. Fcp. 8vo. 1*. Gd. 
 
 Tyndall's Faraday as a Discoverer. Crown 8vo. 3*. Gd. 
 
 — Floating Matter of the Air. Crown 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 — Fragments of Science. 2 vols, post 8vo. 16*. 
 
 — Heat a Mode of Motion. Crown 8vo. 12*. 
 
 — Lectures on Light delivered in America. Crown Svo. 5*. 
 
 — Lessons on Electricity. Crown 8vo. 2*. Gd. 
 
 — Notes on Electrical Phenomena. Crown 8vo. 1*. sewed, 1*. Gd. cloth. 
 
 — Notes of Lectures on Light. Crown 8vo. 1*. sewed, 1*. 6d. cloth. 
 
 — Sound, with Frontispiece and 203 Woodcuts. Crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 Watts's Dictionary of Chemistry. 9 vols, medium 8vo. £15. 2*. Gd. 
 Wilson's Manual of Health-Science. Crown 8vo. 2*. Gd. 
 
 THEOLOGICAL AND RELIGIOUS WORKS. 
 
 Arnold's (Rev. Dr. Thomas) Sermons. 6 vols, crown 8vo. 5*. each. 
 Boultbee's Commentary on the 39 Articles. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Browne's (Bishop) Exposition of the 39 Articles. Svo. 16*. 
 Colenso on the Pentateuch and Book of Joshua. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 Conder's Handbook of the Bible. Post 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 Conybeare & Howson's Life and Letters of St. Paul : — 
 
 Library Edition, with Maps, Plates, and Woodcuts. 2 vols, square crown 
 
 8vo. 21*. 
 Student's Edition, revised and condensed, with 46 Illustrations and Maps. 
 1 vol. crown Svo. 7*. Gd. 
 Cox's (Homersham) The First Century of Christianity. Svo. 12*. 
 Davidson's Introduction to the Study of the New Testament. 2 vols. 8vo. 30*. 
 Edersheim's Life and Times of Jesus the Messiah. 2 vols. Svo. 42*. 
 
 — Prophecy and History in relation to the Messiah. 8vo. 12*. 
 
 Ellicott's (Bishop) Commentary on St. Paul's Epistles. 8vo. Galatians, 8*. Gd. 
 Ephesians, 8*. Gd. Pastoral Epistles, 10*. Gd. Philippians, Colossians and 
 Philemon, 10*. Gd. Thessaloniaus, 7*. Gd. 
 
 Lectures on the Life of our Lord. 8vo. 12*. 
 Ewald's Antiquities of Israel, translated by Solly. 8vo. 12*. Gd. 
 
 — History of Israel, translated by Carpenter & Smith. Vols. 1-7, 8vo. £5. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO.
 
 General Lists of Works. 
 
 Hobart's Medical Language of St. Luke. 8vo. 16s. 
 Hopkins's Christ the Consoler. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 Jukes's New Man and the Eternal Life. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — Second Death and the Restitution of all Tilings. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 — Types of Genesis. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 — The Mystery of the Kingdom. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 Lenormant's New Translation of the Book of Genesis. Translated into English. 
 8vo. 10s. 6d. 
 
 Lyra Germanica : Hymns translated by Miss Winkworth. Fcp. 8vo. 5s. 
 
 Macdonald's (G.) Unspoken Sermons. Second Series. Crown 8vo. Is. 6d. 
 
 Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost. Crown 8vo. 8*. 6d. 
 
 Martineau's Endeavours after the Christian Life. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 Hymns of Praise and Prayer. Crown 8vo. 4s. 6d. 32mo. 1*. 6i. 
 
 — Sermons, Hours of Thought on Sacred Things. 2 vols. 7*. 6d. each. 
 
 Monsell's Spiritual Songs for Sundays and Holidays. Pep. 8vo. 5s. 18mo. 2*. 
 
 Muller's (Max) Origin and Growth of Religion. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 — — Science of Religion. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 Newman's Apologia pro Vita Sua. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — The Idea of a University Denned and Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 7s. 
 
 — Historical Sketches. 3 vols, crown 8vo. 6s. each. 
 
 — Discussions and Arguments on Various Subjects. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — Certain Difficulties Pelt by Anglicans in Catholic Teaching Con- 
 
 sidered. Vol. 1, crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. Vol. 2, crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. 
 
 — The Via Media of the Anglican Church, Illustrated in Lectures, &c. 
 
 2 vols, crown 8vo. 6s. each 
 
 — Essays, Critical and Historical. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 12s. 
 
 — Essays on Biblical and on Ecclesiastical Miracles. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — An Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent. 7s. 6d. 
 Overton's Life in the English Church (1660-1714). 8vo. 14*. 
 Rogers's Eclipse of Faith. Fcp. 8vo. 5s. 
 
 — Defence of the Eclipse of Paith. Fcp. 8vo. 3s. 6d. 
 Sewell's (Miss) Night Lessons from Scripture. 32mo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 — — Passing Thoughts on Religion. Fcp. 8vo. 3.s. 6d. 
 
 — — Preparation for the Holy Communion. 32mo. Zs. 
 
 Smith's Voyage and Shipwreck of St. Paul. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 
 
 Supernatural Religion. Complete Edition. 3 vols. 8vo. 36s. 
 
 Taylor's (Jeremy) Entire Works. With Life by Bishop Heber. Edited by the 
 Rev. C. P. Eden. 10 vols. 8vo. £5. 5s. 
 
 Tulloch's Movements of Religious Thought in Britain during the Nineteenth 
 Century. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d. 
 
 TRAVELS, ADVENTURES, &.C. 
 Aldridge's Ranch Notes in Kansas, Colorada, &c. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Alpine Club (The) Map of Switzerland. In Four Sheets. 42s. 
 Baker's Eight Tears in Ceylon. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 
 — Rifle and Hound in Ceylon. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Ball's Alpine Guide. 3 vols, post 8vo. with Maps and Illustrations :— I. Western 
 
 Alps, 6s. 6d. II. Central Alps, 7s. 6d. III. Eastern Alps, 10s. 6d. 
 Ball on Alpine Travelling, and on the Geology of the Alps, Is. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 10 
 
 General Lists of Works. 
 
 
 Bent's The Cyclades, or Life among the Insular Greeks. Crown 8vo. 12*. Gd. 
 Brassey's Sunshine and Storm in the East. Crown 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 — Voyage in the Yacht ' Sunbeam.' Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. School Edition, 
 
 fcp. 8vo. 2*. Popular Edition, 4to. 6c?. 
 
 — In the Trades, the Tropics, and the ' Roaring Forties.' Edition de 
 
 Luxe, 8vo. £3. 13s. Gd. Library Edition, 8vo.21*. 
 Crawford's Across the Pampas and the Andes. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Dent's Above the Snow Line. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Froude's Oceana ; or, England and her Colonies. 8vo. 18*. 
 HassaU's San Rerno Climatically considered. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 Howitt's Visits to Remarkable Places. Crown Svo. 7*. 6d. 
 Maritime Alps (The) and their Seaboard. By the Author of ' Vera.' 8vo. 21*. 
 Three in Norway. By Two of Them. Crown 8vo. Illustrations, 6*. 
 
 WORKS OF FICTION. 
 
 Beaconsfield's (The Earl of) Novels and Tales. Hughenden Edition, with 2 
 Portraits on Steel and 1 1 Vignettes on Wood. 11 vols, crown 8vo. £2.2*. 
 Cheap Edition, 11 vols. fcp. 8vo. 1*. each, sewed ; 1*. Gd. each, cloth. 
 
 Black Poodle (The) and other Tales. By the Author of ' Vice Versa.' Cr. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Brabourne's (Lord) Friends and Foes from Fairyland. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Harte (Bret) On the Frontier. Three Stories. 16mo. 1*. 
 — — By Shore and Sedge. Three Stories. 16mo. I*. 
 
 In the Olden Time. By the Author of ' Mademoiselle Mori.' Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Melville's (Whyte) Novels. Cheap Edition. 8 vols. fcp. 8vo. 1*. each, sewed ; 
 1*. Gd. each, cloth. 
 
 The Modern Novelist's Library. Crown 8vo. price 2*. each, boards, or 2s. Gd. 
 each, cloth : — 
 
 By the Earl of Beaconsfield, E.G. 
 Lothair. 
 Sybil. 
 Coningsby. 
 Tancred. 
 Venetia. 
 
 Henrietta Temple. 
 Contarini Fleming. 
 Alroy, Ixion, &c. 
 The Young Dnke, &c. 
 Vivian Grey. 
 Endymion. 
 
 By Bret Harte. 
 
 In the Carquinez Woods. 
 
 By Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 In Trust, the Story of a Lady 
 and her Lover. 
 
 By James Payn. 
 
 Thicker than Water. 
 
 By Anthony Trollope. 
 
 Barchester Towers. 
 
 The Warden. 
 By Major Whyte Melville. 
 
 Digby Grand. 
 
 General Bounce. 
 
 Kate Coventry. 
 
 The Gladiators. 
 
 Good for Nothing. 
 
 Holmby House. 
 
 The Interpreter. 
 
 The Queen's Maries. 
 By Various Writers. 
 
 The Atelier du Lys. 
 
 Atherstone Priory. 
 
 The Burgomaster's Family. 
 
 Elsa and her Vulture. 
 
 Mademoiselle Mori. 
 
 The Six Sisters of the Valleys. 
 
 Unawares. 
 
 Oliphant's (Mrs.) Madam. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. 
 Payn's (James) The Luck of the Darrells. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. 
 Reader's Fairy Prince Follow-my-Lead. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 Sewell's (Miss) Stories and Tales. Cabinet Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 
 gilt edges, price 3*. Gd. each :— 
 
 Ann Herbert. Cleve Hall. 
 The Earl's Daughter. 
 Experience of Life. 
 Gertrude. Ivors. 
 
 A Glimpse of the World. 
 Katharine Ashton. 
 Laneton Parsonage. 
 Margaret Percival. Ursula. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GEEEN, & CO.
 
 General Lists of Works. 11 
 
 Stevenson's (R. L.) The Dynamiter. Fcp. 8vo. Is. sewed ; Is. Gd. cloth. 
 
 — Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll ami .Mr. Hyde. Fcp. 8vo. 1*. 
 sewed ; 1*. Gd. cloth. 
 Sturgis' My Friend and I. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 POETRY AND THE DRAMA. 
 
 Bailey's Festns, a Poem. Crown 8vo. 12*. Gd. 
 
 Bowdler's Family Shakespeare. Medium 8vo. 14*. 6 vols. fcp. 8vo. 21*. 
 Dante's Divine Comedy, translate'! by Janes Innes Minchin. Crown 8vo. 15*. 
 Goethe's Faust, translated by Birds. Large crown 8vo. 12*. Gd. 
 
 — — translated by Webb. 8vo. 12*. Gd. 
 
 — — edited by Selss. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 Ingelow's Poems. Vols. 1 and 2, fcp. Svo. 12*. Vol. 3 fcp. 8vo. 5*. 
 
 Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, with Ivry and the Amiada. Illustrated by 
 
 Weguelin. Crown 8vo. 3*. *>d. gilt edges. 
 The same, Annotated Edition, fcp. Svo. 1*. sewed, 1*. Gd. cloth, 2*. Gd. cloth extra. 
 The same, Popular Edition. Illustrated by Scliarf. Fcp. 4to. 6d. swd., 1*. cloth. 
 Macdonald's (G.) A Book of Strife : in the Form of the Diary of an Old Soul : 
 
 Poems. 12mo. 6*. 
 Pennell's (Cholmondeley) 'From Grave to Gay.' A Volume of Selections. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 Reader's Voices from Flowerland, a Birthday Book, 2*. Gd. cloth, 3*. Gd. roan. 
 Robinson's The New Arcadia, and other Poems. Crown Svo. 6*. 
 Shakespeare's Hamlet, annotated by George Macdonald, LL.D. 8vo. 12*. 
 Southey's Poetical Works. Medium 8vo. 14*. 
 Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses. Fcp. 8vo. 5*. 
 Virgil's ^Eneid. translated by Conington. Crown 8vo. 9*. 
 
 — Poems, translated into English Prose. Crown 8vo. 9*. 
 
 AGRICULTURE, HORSES, DOGS, AND CATTLE. 
 
 Dunster's How to Make the Land Pay. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 Fitzwygram s Horses and Stables. 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 Horses and Roads. By Free-Lance. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Lloyd, The Science of Agriculture. 8vo. 12*. 
 
 Loudon's Encyclopaedia of Agriculture. 21*. 
 
 Miles's Horse's Foot, and How to Keep it Sound. Imperial 8vo. 12*. Gd. 
 
 — Plain Treatise on Horse-Shoeing. Post Svo. 2*. Gd. 
 
 — Remarks on Horses' Teeth. Post Svo. 1*. Gd. 
 
 — Stables and Stable-Fittings. Imperial Svo. 15*. 
 Nevile's Farms and Farming. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Horses and Riding. Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Steel's Diseases of the Ox, a Manual of Bovine Pathology. 8vo. 15*. 
 Stonehenge's Dog in Health and Disease. Square crown 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 — Greyhound. Square crown 8vo. 15*. 
 
 Taylor's Agricultural Note Book. Fcp. 8vo. 2*. 6d. 
 Ville on Artificial Manures, by Crookes. 8vo. 21*. 
 Youatt's Work on the Dog. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — — — — Horse. 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GEEEN, & CO.
 
 12 General Lists of Works. 
 
 SPORTS AND PASTIMES. 
 
 The Badminton Library of Sports and Pastimes. Edited by tbe Duke of Beaufort 
 and A. E. T. Watson. With numerous Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 each. 
 
 Hunting, by the Duke of Beaufort, &c. 
 
 Fishing, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, &c. 2 vols. 
 
 Racing, by the Earl of Suffolk, &c. 
 Campbell- Walker's Correct Card, or How to Play at Whist. Pep. 8vo. 2*. Gd. 
 Dead Shot (The) by Marksman. Crown 8vo. 10s. 6d. 
 Francis's Treatise on Fishing in all its Branches. Post 8vo. 15*. 
 Jefferies' The Red Deer. Crown 8vo. is. Gd. 
 Longman's Chess Openings. Fcp. 8vo. 2*. Gd. 
 Peel's A Highland Gathering. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 Pole's Theory of the Modern Scientific Game of Whist. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. Gd. 
 Proctor's How to Play Whist. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 Ronalds's Fly-Fisher's Entomology. 8vo. 14s. 
 Verney's Chess Eccentricities. Crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 Wilcocks's Sea- Fisherman. Post 8vo. 6*. 
 Year's Sport (The) for 1885. 8vo. 21*. 
 
 ENCYCLOPAEDIAS, DICTIONARIES, AND BOOKS OF 
 
 REFERENCE. 
 
 Acton's Modern Cookery for Private Families. Fcp. 8vo. 4*. Gd. 
 
 Ayre's Treasury of Bible Knowledge. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Brande's Dictionary of Science, Literature, and Art, 3 vols, medium 8vo. 63*. 
 
 Cabinet Lawyer (The), a Popular Digest of the Laws of England. Fcp. 8vo. 9*. 
 
 Cates's Dictionary of General Biography. Medium 8vo. 28*. 
 
 Doyle's The Official Baronage of England. Vols. I.-III. 3 vols. 4to. £5. 5*. ; 
 
 Large Paper Edition, £15. 15*. 
 Gwilt's Encyclopaedia of Architecture. 8vo. 52*. Gd. 
 
 Keith Johnston's Dictionary of Geography, or General Gazetteer. 8vo. 42*. 
 Latham's (Dr.) Edition of Johnson's Dictionary. 4 vols. 4to. £7. 
 
 — — — — Abridged. Royal 8vo. 14s. 
 
 M'Culloch's Dictionary of Commerce and Commercial Navigation. 8vo. 63*. 
 Maunder's Biographical Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 _ Historical Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Scientific and Literary Treasury. Fcp. 8vo. 6s. 
 
 — Treasury of Bible Knowledge, edited by Ayre. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Botany, edited by Lindley & Moore. Two Parts, 12*. 
 
 — Treasury of Geograpny. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Knowledge and Library of Reference. Fcp. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 — Treasury of Natural History. Fcp 8vo. 6*. 
 
 Quain's Dictionary of Medicine. Medium 8vo. 31*. Gd., or in 2 vols. 34*. 
 
 Reeve's Cookery and Housekeeping. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 Rich's Dictionary of Roman and Greek Antiquities. Crown 8vo. 7*. Gd. 
 
 Roget's Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases. Crown 8vo. 10*. Gd. 
 
 Dre's Dictionary of Arts, Manufactures, and Mines. 4 vols, medium 8vo. £7. 7s. 
 
 Willich's Popular Tables, by Marriott. Crown Svo. 10*. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GKEEN, & CO.
 
 A SELECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 EDUCATIONAL WORKS. 
 
 TEXT BOOKS OF SCIENCE, MECHANICAL AND 
 PHYSICAL. 
 
 Abney's Treatise on Photography. Fcp. Svo. 3s. G</. 
 Anderson's Strength of Materials. 3s. Gd. 
 Armstrong's Organic Chemistry. 3s. Gd. 
 Ball's Elements of Astronomy. 6s. 
 Barry's Railway Appliances. 3s. Gd. 
 Bauerman's Systematic Mineralogy. 6s. 
 — Descriptive Mineralogy. 6s. 
 
 Bloxam and Huntington's Metals. 5s. 
 Glazebrook's Physical Optics. 6s. 
 Glazebrook and Shaw's Practical Physics. 6s. 
 Gore's Art of Electro-Metallurgy. 6s. 
 
 Griffin's Algebra and Trigonometry. 3s. Gd. Notes and Solutions, 3s. Gd. 
 Jenkin's Electricity and Magnetism. 3s. Gd. 
 Maxwell's Theory of Heat. 3s. 6</. 
 
 Merrifleld's Technical Arithmetic and Mensuration. 3s. Gil. Key, 3s. Gd. 
 Miller's Inorganic Chemistry. 3s. Gd. 
 Preece and Sivewright's Telegraphy. 5s. 
 Rutley's Study of Rocks, a Text-Book of Petrology. 4s. 6<7. 
 Shelley's Workshop Appliances. 4s. Gd. 
 Thome's Structural and Physiological Botany. 6s. 
 Thorpe's Quantitative Chemical Analysis. 4s. 6</. 
 Thorpe and Muir's Qualitative Analysis. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Tilden's Chemical Philosophy. 3s. Gd. With Answers to Problems. 4s. Gd. 
 Unwin's Elements of Machine Design. 6s. 
 Watson's Plane and Solid Geometry. 3s. Gd. 
 
 THE GREEK LANGUAGE. 
 
 Bloomfield's College and School Greek Testament. Fcp. Svo. 5*. 
 Bolland & Lang's Politics of Aristotle. Post Svo. 7s. Gd. 
 Collis's Chief Tenses of the Greek Irregular Verbs. Svo. Is. 
 
 — Pontes Gra?ci, Stepping-Stone to Greek Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 ■ — Praxis Qrasca, Etymology. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Greek Verse-Book, Praxis Iambica. 12mo. 4s. Gi7. 
 Parrar's Brief Greek Syntax and Accidence. 12mo. 4s. Gd. 
 
 — Greek Grammar Rules for Harrow School. 12mo. Is. 6d. 
 Hewitt's Greek Examination-Papers. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 
 Isbister's Xenophon's Anabasis, Books I. to III. with Notes. 12mo. 3s. 6d. 
 Jerram's Graece Reddenda. Crown 8vo. Is. Gd. 
 
 London: LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
 
 14 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 Kennedy's Greek Grammar. 12mo. is. Gd. 
 
 Liddell & Scott's English-Greek Lexicon. 4 to. 36s. ; Square 12mo. 7*. Gd. 
 Linwood's Sophocles, Greek Text, Latin Notes. 4th Edition. 8vo. 16$. 
 Mahaffy's Classical Greek Literature. Crown 8vo. Poets, 7s. Gd. Prose Writers, 
 
 7s. Gd. 
 Morris's Greek Lessons. Square 18mo. Part I. 2s. Gd. ; Part II. Is. 
 Parry's Elementary Greek Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
 Plato's Republic, Book I. Greek Text, English Notes by Hardy. Crown 8vo. 3s. 
 Slieppard and Evans's Notes on Thucydides. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Thucydides, Book IV. with Notes by Barton and Chavasse. Crown 8vo. 5s. 
 Valpy's Greek Delectus, irnpi-oved by White. 12mo. 2s. Gd. Key, 2s. Gd, 
 White's Xenophon's Expedition of Cyrus, with English Notes. 12mo. 7s. Gd. 
 Wilkins's Manual of Greek Prose Composition. Crown 8vo. 5s. Key, 5s. 
 
 — Exercises in Greek Prose Composition. Crown 8vo. 4s. Gd. Key, ?s. Gd. 
 
 — New Greek Delectus. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. Key, 2.?. Gd. 
 
 — Progressive Greek Delectus. 12mo. 4.?. Key, 2s. Gd. 
 
 — Progressive Greek Anthology. 12mo. 5s. 
 
 ■ — Seriptores Attici, Excerpts with English Notes. Crown 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 
 — Speeches from Thucydides translated. Post 8vo. 6s. 
 Yonge's English-Greek Lexicon. 4to. 21s. ; Square 12mo. 8s. Gd. 
 
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 — Cornelius Nepos, improved by White. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 
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 — Ovid's Metamorphoses, improved by White. 12mo. 4s. Gd. 
 
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 Collis's Chief Tenses of Latin Iiregular Verbs. 8vo. Is. 
 
 — Pontes Latini, Stepping-Stone to Latin Grammar. 12mo. 3s. Gd. 
 Hewitt's Latin Examination-Papers. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
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 — Child's Latin Accidence. 12mo. Is. 
 
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 Elementary Latin Reading Book, or Tirocinium Latinum. 12mo. 2s. 
 
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 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
 15 
 
 Milliugton's Latin Prose Composition. Crown 8vo. 3s. Bd. 
 
 Selections from Latin Prose. Crown 8vo. 2s. Gd. 
 Moody's Eton Latin Grammar. 12mo. 2s. lid. The Accidence separately, Is. 
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 — — — — Grammar, by Rev. Dr. Kennedy. Post 8vo. 7s. Gd. 
 Prendergast's Mastery Series, Manual of Latin. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 Rapier's Introduction to Composition of Latin Verse. 12mo. 3s. Gd. Key, 2*. Gd. 
 Sheppard and Turner's Aids to Classical Study. 12mo. 5s. Key, 6s. 
 Valpy's Latin Delectus, improved by White. 12mo. 2s. Cd. Key, 3s. Gd. 
 Virgil's .Eneid, translated into English Verse by Conington. Crown 8vo. 9s. 
 
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 \i 
 
 16 
 
 A Selection of Educational Works. 
 
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 — Instantaneous French Exercises. Fcp. 2.?. Key, 2s. 
 Cassal's French Genders. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. 
 Cassal & Karcher's Graduated French Translation Book. Part I. 3s. 6<?. 
 
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 Contanseau's Practical French and English Dictionary. Post 8to. Zs. Gd. 
 
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 — Premieres Lectures. 12mo. 2s. Gd. 
 
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 Contanseau's Middle-Clas3 French Course. Fcp. 8vo. : — 
 
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 Easy French Delectus, Sd. 
 First French Beader, Sd. 
 Second French Beader, 8d. 
 French and English Dialogues, 8d. 
 12mo. Zs. Gd. Key, Zs. Gd. 
 12mo. 5s. 
 
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 Jerram's Sentences for Translation into French. Cr. 8vo. Is. Key, 2*. Gd. 
 
 Prendergast's Mastery Series, French. 12mo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 Souvestre's Philosophe sous les Toits, by Stievenard. Square 18mo. 1?. Gd. 
 
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 Bnchheim's German Poetry, for Bepetition. 18mo. 1*. Gd. 
 Collis's Card of German Irregular Verbs. 8vo. 2*. 
 Fischer-Fischart's Elementary German Grammar. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. Gd. 
 Just's German Grammar. 12mo. Is. Gd. 
 
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 Longman's Pocket German and English Dictionary. Square 18mo. 2s. Gd. 
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 First German Exercise-Book. 9d. 
 
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 Prendergast's Mastery Series, German. 12mo. 2s. 6a". 
 Quick's Essentials of German. Crown 8vo. 3s. Gd. 
 Selss's School Edition of Goethe's Faust. Crown Svo. 5s. 
 — Outline of German Literature. Crown 8vo. 4s. Gd 
 Wirth's German Chit-Chat. Crown 8vo. 2s. Gd. 
 
 German Prose Composition Book. 
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 Second German Header, dd. 
 
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